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CHRONICLES 
OF  AVONLEA 

In  which  Anne  Shirley  of  Green  Gables  and  Aconlea 
plays  some  part,  and  which  have  to  do  with  other  per- 
sonalities and  events,  including  The  Hurrying  of  Lu- 
dovic,  Old  Lady  Lloyd,  The  Training  of  Felix,  Little 
Joscelyn,  The  Winning  of  Lucinda,  Old  Man  Shaw's 
Girl,  Aunt  Olivia's  Beau,  The  Quarantine  at  Alexan- 
der Abraham's,  Pa  Sloane's  Purchase,  The  Courting 
of  Prissy  Strong,  The  Miracle  atCarmody,  and  finally 
The  End  of  a  Quarrel. 

jlll  related  by 

L  MC.  MONTGOMERY 

Author  of  "  Anne  of  Green  Gables,"  "  Anne  of  Avonlea," 
"  Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard,"  "  The  Story  Girl,"  etc. 


W ith  frontispiece  and  cooer  in  colour  by 

QEORGE  QIBBS 


BOSTON    <9>    L.   C.   PAGE    <& 
COMPANY    «&    JttDCCCCXII 


Copyright,  rgzt, 
BY  L.  C.  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

(l  N  CO  R  PO  K  A  TED) 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  Londo» 
All  rights  reserved 


First  Impression,  June,  1912 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  br 
THE  COLONIAL  PRESS 
C  H.  Simonds  &  Co.,  Boston.  U.  S.  A. 


TO   THE   MEMORY   OF 

William  a.  f)otu$t0n, 

A  DEAR  FRIEND,  WHO  HAS   GONE   BEYOND 


2047674 


The    unsung    beauty    hid 

life's  common  things  below. 

—  Whittier. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  THE  HURRYING  OF  LUDOVIC                              I 

II.    OLD  LADY  LLOYD 18 

III.  EACH  IN  His  OWN  TONGUE        .       .       .       78 

IV.  LITTLE  JOSCELYN    .       .       .       .       .       .116 

V.  THE  WINNING  OF  LUCINDA  .       .       .       .135 

VI.  OLD  MAN  SHAW'S  GIRL       .       .       .       .156 

VII.    AUNT  OLIVIA'S  BEAU 176 

VIII.  THE  QUARANTINE  AT  ALEXANDER  ABRA- 
HAM'S      202 

IX.  PA  SLOANE'S  PURCHASE        .       .       .       .232 

X.  THE  COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG    .       .     246 

XI.  THE  MIRACLE  AT  CARMODY        .       .       .265 

XII.  THE  END  OF  A  QUARREL      ....     288 


CHRONICLES    OF 
AVON  LEA 


THE  HURRYING  OF   LUDOVIC 

ANNE  SHIRLEY  was  curled  up  on  the  window- 
seat  of  Theodora  Dix's  sitting-room  one  Saturday 
evening,  looking  dreamily  afar  at  some  fair  star- 
land  beyond  the  hills  of  sunset.  Anne  was  visiting 
for  a  fortnight  of  her  vacation  at  Echo  Lodge, 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stephen  Irving  were  spend- 
ing the  summer,  and  she  often  ran  over  to  the  old 
Dix  homestead  to  chat  for  awhile  with  Theodora. 
They  had  had  their  chat  out,  on  this  particular 
evening,  and  Anne  was  giving  herself  over  to  the 
delight  of  building  an  air-castle.  She  leaned  her 
shapely  head,  with  its  braided  coronet  of  dark 
red  hair,  against  the  window-casing,  and  her  gray 
1 


2  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

eyes  were  like  the  moonlight  gleam  of  shadowy 
pools. 

Then  she  saw  Ludovic  Speed  coming  down  the 
lane.  He  was  yet  far  from  the  house,  for  the  Dix 
lane  was  a  long  one,  but  Ludovic  could  be  recog- 
nized as  far  as  he  could  be  seen.  No  one  else  in 
Middle  Grafton  had  such  a  tall,  gently-stooping, 
placidly-moving  figure.  In  every  kink  and  turn 
of  it  there  was  an  individuality  all  Ludovic' s 
own. 

Anne  roused  herself  from  her  dreams,  thinking 
it  would  only  be  tactful  to  take  her  departure. 
Ludovic  was  courting  Theodora.  Everyone  in 
Grafton  knew  that,  or,  if  anyone  were  in  ignorance 
of  the  fact,  it  was  not  because  he  had  not  had  time 
to  find  out.  Ludovic  had  been  coming  down  that 
lane  to  see  Theodora,  in  the  same  ruminating,  un- 
hastening  fashion,  for  fifteen  years! 

When  Anne,  who  was  slim  and  girlish  and  ro- 
mantic, rose  to  go,  Theodora,  who  was  plump  and 
middle-aged,  and  practical,  said,  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye: 

"  There  isn't  any  hurry,  child.  Sit  down  and 
have  your  call  out.  You've  seen  Ludovic  coming 
down  the  lane,  and,  I  suppose,  you  think  you'll 
be  a  crowd.  But  you  won't.  Ludovic  rather  likes 
a  third  person  around,  and  so  do  I.  It  spurs  up 
the  conversation  as  it  were.  When  a  man  has 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC  3 

been  coming  to  see  you  straight  along,  twice  a 
week  for  fifteen  years,  you  get  rather  talked  out 
by  spells." 

Theodora  never  pretended  to  bashfulness  where 
Ludovic  was  concerned.  She  was  not  at  all  shy 
of  referring  to  him  and  his  dilatory  courtship. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  to  amuse  her. 

Anne  sat  down  again  and  together  they  watched 
Ludovic  coming  down  the  lane,  gazing  calmly 
about  him  at  the  lush  clover  fields  and  the  blue 
loops  of  the  river  winding  in  and  out  of  the  misty 
valley  below. 

Anne  looked  at  Theodora's  placid,  finely- 
moulded  face  and  tried  to  imagine  what  she  her- 
self would  feel  like  if  she  were  sitting  there,  wait- 
ing for  an  elderly  lover  who  had,  seemingly,  taken 
so  long  to  make  up  his  mind.  But  even  Anne's 
imagination,  failed  her  for  this. 

"  Anyway,"  she  thought,  impatiently,  "if  I 
wanted  him  I  think  I'd  find  some  way  of  hurry- 
ing him  up.  Ludovic  Speed  I  Was  there  ever  such 
a  misfit  of  a  name?  Such  a  name  for  such  a  man 
is  a  delusion  and  a  snare." 

Presently  Ludovic  got  to  the  house,  but  stood 
so  long  on  the  doorstep  in  a  brown  study,  gazing 
into  the  tangled  green  boskage  of  the  cherry 
orchard,  that  Theodora  finally  went  and  opened 
the  door  before  he  knocked.  As  she  brought  him 


4  CHRONICLES    OF   AVONLEA 

into  the  sitting-room  she  made  a  comical  grimace 
at  Anne  over  his  shoulder. 

Ludovic  smiled  pleasantly  at  Anne.  He  liked 
her;  she  was  the  only  young  girl  he  knew,  for  he 
generally  avoided  young  girls  —  they  made  him 
feel  awkward  and  out  of  place.  But  Anne  did  not 
affect  him  in  this  fashion.  She  had  a  way  of  get- 
ting on  with  all  sorts  of  people,  and,  although 
they  had  not  known  her  very  long,  both  Ludovic 
and  Theodora  looked  upon  her  as  an  old  friend. 

Ludovic  was  tall  and  somewhat  ungainly,  but 
his  unhesitating  placidity  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  a  dignity  that  did  not  otherwise  pertain 
to  him.  He  had  a  drooping,  silky,  brown  mous- 
tache, and  a  little  curly  tuft  of  imperial,  —  a 
fashion  which  was  regarded  as  eccentric  in  Graf- 
ton,  where  men  had  clean-shaven  chins  or  went 
full-bearded.  His  eyes  were  dreamy  and  pleasant, 
with  a  touch  of  melancholy  in  their  blue  depths. 

He  sat  down  in  the  big  bulgy  old  armchair  that 
had  belonged  to  Theodora's  father.  Ludovic 
always  sat  there,  and  Anne  declared  that  the 
chair  had  come  to  look  like  him. 

The  conversation  soon  grew  animated  enough. 
Ludovic  was  a  good  talker  when  he  had  some- 
body to  draw  him  out.  He  was  well  read,  and 
frequently  surprised  Anne  by  his  shrewd  com- 
ments on  men  and  matters  out  in  the  world,  of 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC  5 

which  only  the  faint  echoes  reached  Deland  River. 
He  had  also  a  liking  for  religious  arguments  with 
Theodora,  who  did  not  care  much  for  politics  or 
the  making  of  history,  but  was  avid  of  doctrines, 
and  read  everything  pertaining  thereto.  When 
the  conversation  drifted  into  an  eddy  of  friendly 
wrangling  between  Ludovic  and  Theodora  over 
Christian  Science,  Anne  understood  that  her  use- 
fulness was  ended  for  the  time  being,  and  that 
she  would  not  be  missed. 

"  It's  star  time  and  good-night  time,"  she  said, 
and  went  away  quietly. 

But  she  had  to  stop  to  laugh  when  she  was  well 
out  of  sight  of  the  house,  in  a  green  meadow 
be-starred  with  the  white  and  gold  of  daisies.  A 
wind,  odour-freighted,  blew  daintily  across  it. 
Anne  leaned  against  a  white  birch  tree  in  the 
corner  and  laughed  heartily,  as  she  was  apt  to 
do  whenever  she  thought  of  Ludovic  and  Theo- 
dora. To  her  eager  youth  this  courtship  of  theirs 
seemed  a  very  amusing  thing.  She  liked  Ludovic, 
but  she  allowed  herself  to  be  provoked  with  him. 

"The  dear,  big,  irritating  goose!"  she  said 
aloud.  "  There  never  was  such  a  lovable  idiot 
before.  He's  just  like  the  alligator  in  the  old 
rhyme,  who  wouldn't  go  along,  and  wouldn't  keep 
still,  but  just  kept  bobbing  up  and  down." 

Two  evenings  later,  when  Anne  went  over  to 


6  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

the  Dix  place,  she  and  Theodora  drifted  into  a 
conversation  about  Ludovic.  Theodora,  who  was 
the  most  industrious  soul  alive,  and  had  a  mania 
for  fancy  work  into  the  bargain,  was  busying  her 
smooth,  plump  fingers  with  a  very  elaborate  Bat- 
tenburg  lace  centrepiece.  Anne  was  lying  back  in 
a  little  rocker,  with  her  slim  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  watching  Theodora.  She  realized  that  Theo- 
dora was  very  handsome,  in  a  stately,  Juno-like 
fashion  of  firm,  white  flesh,  large  clearly-chiselled 
outlines,  and  great,  cowey,  brown  eyes.  When 
Theodora  was  not  smiling  she  Jooked  very  im- 
posing. Anne  thought  it  likely  that  Ludovic 
held  her  in  awe. 

"  Did  you  and  Ludovic  talk  about  Christian 
Science  all  Saturday  evening?  "  she  asked. 

Theodora  overflowed  into  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  and  we  even  quarrelled  over  it.  At  least 
/  did.  Ludovic  wouldn't  quarrel  with  anyone. 
You  have  to  fight  air  when  you  spar  with  him. 
I  hate  to  square  up  to  a  person  who  won't  hit 
back." 

"  Theodora,"  said  Anne  coaxingly,  "  I  am  going 
to  be  curious  and  impertinent.  You  can  snub 
me  if  you  like.  Why  don't  you  and  Ludovic  get 
married?  " 

Theodora  laughed  comfortably. 

"That's  a  question  Grafton  folks  have  been 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC  7 

asking  for  quite  a  while,  I  reckon,  Anne.  Well, 
I'd  have  no  objection  to  marrying  Ludovic. 
That's  frank  enough  for  you,  isn't  it?  But  it's 
not  easy  to  marry  a  man  unless  he  asks  you.  And 
Ludovic  has  never  asked  me." 

"  Is  he  too  shy?  "  persisted  Anne.  Since  Theo- 
dora was  in  the  mood,  she  meant  to  sift  this 
puzzling  affair  to  the  bottom. 

Theodora  dropped  her  work  and  looked  medi- 
tatively out  over  the  green  slopes  of  the  summer 
world. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  is  that.  Ludovic  isn't 
shy.  It's  just  his  way  —  the  Speed  way.  The 
Speeds  are  all  dreadfully  deliberate.  They  spend 
years  thinking  over  a  thing  before  they  make  up 
their  minds  to  do  it.  Sometimes  they  get  so  much 
in  the  habit  of  thinking  about  it  that  they  never 
get  over  it  — like  old  Alder  Speed,  who  was  al- 
ways talking  of  going  to  England  to  see  his 
brother,  but  never  went,  though  there  was  no 
earthly  reason  why  he  shouldn't.  They're  not 
lazy,  you  know,  but  they  love  to  take  their  time." 

"  And  Ludovic  is  just  an  aggravated  case  of 
Speedism,"  suggested  Anne. 

"  Exactly.  He  never  hurried  in  his  life.  Why, 
he  has  been  thinking  for  the  last  six  years  of  get- 
ting his  house  painted.  He  talks  it  over  with  me 
every  little  while,  and  picks  out  the  colour,  and 


8  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

there  the  matter  stays.  He's  fond  of  me,  and  he 
means  to  ask  me  to  have  him  sometime.  The 
only  question  is  —  will  the  time  ever  come?" 

"  Why  don't  you  hurry  him  up?  "  asked  Anne 
impatiently. 

Theodora  went  back  to  her  stitches  with  another 
laugh. 

"  If  Ludovic  could  be  hurried  up  I'm  not  the 
one  to  do  it.  I'm  too  shy.  It  sounds  ridiculous 
to  hear  a  woman  of  my  age  and  inches  say  that, 
but  it  is  true.  Of  course,  I  know  it's  the  only  way 
any  Speed  ever  did  make  out  to  get  married.  For 
instance,  there's  a  cousin  of  mine  married  to  Lu- 
dovic's  brother.  I  don't  say  she  proposed  to  him 
out  and  out,  but,  mind  you,  Anne,  it  wasn't  far 
from  it.  I  couldn't  do  anything  like  that.  I 
did  try  once.  When  I  realized  that  I  was  getting 
sere  and  mellow,  and  all  the  girls  of  my  genera- 
tion were  going  off  on  either  hand,  I  tried  to  give 
Ludovic  a  hint.  But  it  stuck  in  my  throat.  And 
now  I  don't  mind.  If  I  don't  change  Dix  to  Speed 
until  I  take  the  initiative,  it  will  be  Dix  to  the 
end  of  life.  Ludovic  doesn't  realize  that  we  are 
growing  old,  you  know.  He  thinks  we  are  giddy 
young  folks  yet,  with  plenty  of  time  before  us. 
That's  the  Speed  failing.  They  never  find  out 
they're  alive  until  they're  dead." 

"  You're  fond  of  Ludovic,  aren't  you?  "  asked 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC  9 

Anne,  detecting  a  note  of  real  bitterness  among 
Theodora's  paradoxes. 

"  Laws,  yes,"  said  Theodora  candidly.  She 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  blush  over  so 
settled  a  fact.  "  I  think  the  world  and  all  of  Lu- 
dovic.  And  he  certainly  does  need  somebody  to 
look  after  him.  He's  neglected  —  he  looks  frayed. 
You  can  see  that  for  yourself.  That  old  aunt  of 
his  looks  after  his  house  in  some  fashion,  but  she 
doesn't  look  after  him.  And  he's  coming  now  to 
the  age  when  a  man  needs  to  be  looked  after  and 
coddled  a  bit.  I'm  lonesome  here,  and  Ludovic 
is  lonesome  up  there,  and  it  does  seem  ridiculous, 
doesn't  it?  I  don't  wonder  that  we're  the  stand- 
ing joke  of  Graf  ton.  Goodness  knows,  I  laugh  at 
it  enough  myself.  I've  sometimes  thought  that 
if  Ludovic  could  be  made  jealous  it  might  spur 
him  along.  But  I  never  could  flirt  and  there's 
nobody  to  flirt  with  if  I  could.  Everybody  here- 
abouts looks  upon  me  as  Ludovic's  property  and 
nobody  would  dream  of  interfering  with  him." 

"  Theodora,"  cried  Anne,  "  I  have  a  plan!  " 

"  Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  "  exclaimed 
Theodora. 

Anne  told  her.  At  first  Theodora  laughed  and 
protested.  In  the  end,  she  yielded  somewhat 
doubtfully,  overborne  by  Anne's  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,  try  it,  then,"  she  said,  resignedly.    "  If 


10  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Ludovic  gets  mad  and  leaves  me  I'll  be  worse 
off  than  ever.  But  nothing  venture,  nothing  win. 
And  there  is  a  fighting  chance,  I  suppose.  Besides, 
I  must  admit  I'm  tired  of  his  dilly-dallying." 

Anne  went  back  to  Echo  Lodge  tingling  with 
delight  in  her  plot.  She  hunted  up  Arnold  Sher- 
man, and  told  him  what  was  required  of  him. 
Arnold  Sherman  listened  and  laughed.  He  was 
an  elderly  widower,  an  intimate  friend  of  Stephen 
Irving,  and  had  come  down  to  spend  part  of  the 
summer  with  him  and  his  wife  in  Prince  Edward 
Island.  He  was  handsome  in  a  mature  style,  and 
he  had  a  dash  of  mischief  in  him  still,  so  that  he 
entered  readily  enough  into  Anne's  plan.  It 
amused  him  to  think  of  hurrying  Ludovic  Speed, 
and  he  knew  that  Theodora  Dix  could  be  de- 
pended on  to  do  her  part.  The  comedy  would 
not  be  dull,  whatever  its  outcome. 

The  curtain  rose  on  the  first  act  after  prayer 
meeting  on  the  next  Thursday  night.  It  was 
bright  moonlight  when  the  people  came  out  of 
church,  and  everybody  saw  it  plainly.  Arnold 
Sherman  stood  upon  the  steps  close  to  the  door, 
and  Ludovic  Speed  leaned  up  against  a  corner  of 
the  graveyard  fence,  as  he  had  done  for  years. 
The  boys  said  he  had  worn  the  paint  off  that  par- 
ticular place.  Ludovic  knew  of  no  reason  why 
he  should  paste  himself  up  against  the  church 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC         11 

door.  Theodora  would  come  out  as  usual,  and 
he  would  join  her  as  she  went  past  the  corner. 

This  was  what  happened ;  Theodora  came  down 
the  steps,  her  stately  figure  outlined  in  its  darkness 
against  the  gush  of  lamplight  from  the  porch. 
Arnold  Sherman  asked  her  if  he  might  see  her 
home.  Theodora  took  his  arm  calmly,  and  to- 
gether they  swept  past  the  stupefied  Ludovic, 
who  stood  helplessly  gazing  after  them  as  if  un- 
able to  believe  his  eyes. 

For  a  few  moments  he  stood  there  limply ;  then 
he  started  down  the  road  after  his  fickle  lady  and 
her  new  admirer.  The  boys  and  irresponsible 
young  men  crowded  after,  expecting  some  excite- 
ment, but  they  were  disappointed.  Ludovic 
strode  on  until  he  overtook  Theodora  and  Arnold 
Sherman,  and  then  fell  meekly  in  behind  them. 

Theodora  hardly  enjoyed  her  walk  home,  al- 
though Arnold  Sherman  laid  himself  out  to  be 
especially  entertaining.  Her  heart  yearned  after 
Ludovic,  whose  shuffling  footsteps  she  heard  be- 
hind her.  She  feared  that  she  had  been  very 
cruel,  but  she  was  in  for  it  now.  She  steeled  her- 
self by  the  reflection  that  it  was  all  for  his  own 
good,  and  she  talked  to  Arnold  Sherman  as  if  he 
were  the  one  man  in  the  world.  Poor,  deserted 
Ludovic,  following  humbly  behind,  heard  her, 
and  if  Theodora  had  known  how  bitter  the  cup 


12  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

she  was  holding  to  his  lips  really  was,  she  would 
never  have  been  resolute  enough  to  present  it, 
no  matter  for  what  ultimate  good. 

When  she  and  Arnold  turned  in  at  her  gate 
Ludovic  had  to  stop.  Theodora  looked  over  her 
shoulder  and  saw  him  standing  still  on  the 
road.  His  forlorn  figure  haunted  her  thoughts 
all  night.  If  Anne  had  not  run  over  the  next  day 
and  bolstered  up  her  convictions,  she  might  have 
spoiled  everything  by  prematurely  relenting. 

Ludovic,  meanwhile,  stood  still  on  the  road, 
quite  oblivious  to  the  hoots  and  comments  of 
the  vastly  amused  small  boy  contingent,  until 
Theodora  and  his  rival  disappeared  from  his  view 
under  the  firs  in  the  hollow  of  her  lane.  Then  he 
turned  about  and  went  home,  not  with  his  usual 
leisurely  amble,  but  with  a  perturbed  stride  which 
proclaimed  his  inward  disquiet. 

He  felt  bewildered.  If  the  world  had  come 
suddenly  to  an  end  or  if  the  lazy,  meandering 
Grafton  River  had  turned  about  and  flowed  up 
hill,  Ludovic  could  not  have  been  more  aston- 
ished. For  fifteen  years  he  had  walked  home 
from  meetings  with  Theodora;  and  now  this 
elderly  stranger,  with  all  the  glamour  of  "  the 
States  "  hanging  about  him,  had  coolly  walked  off 
with  her  under  Ludovic's  very  nose.  Worse  — 
most  unkindest  cut  of  all  —  Theodora  had  gone 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC         13 

with  him  willingly;  nay,  she  had  evidently  en- 
joyed his  company.  Ludovic  felt  the  stirring  of  a 
righteous  anger  in  his  easy-going  soul. 

When  he  reached  the  end  of  his  lane,  he  paused 
at  his  gate,  and  looked  at  his  house,  set  back  from 
the  lane  in  a  crescent  of  birches.  Even  in  the 
moonlight,  its  weather-worn  aspect  was  plainly 
visible.  He  thought  of  the  "  palatial  residence  " 
rumour  ascribed  to  Arnold  Sherman  in  Boston, 
and  stroked  his  chin  nervously  with  his  sunburnt 
fingers.  Then  he  doubled  up  his  fist  and  struck 
it  smartly  on  the  gate-post. 

"  Theodora  needn't  think  she  is  going  to  jilt 
me  in  this  fashion,  after  keeping  company  with  me 
for  fifteen  years,"  he  said.  "  I'll  have  something 
to  say  to  it,  Arnold  Sherman  or  no  Arnold  Sher- 
man. The  impudence  of  the  puppy!  " 

The  next  morning  Ludovic  drove  to  Carmody 
and  engaged  Joshua  Pye  to  come  and  paint  his 
house,  and  that  evening,  although  he  was  not  due 
till  Saturday  night,  he  went  down  to  see  Theo- 
dora. 

Arnold  Sherman  was  there  before  him,  and  was 
actually  sitting  in  Ludovic's  own  prescriptive 
chair.  Ludovic  had  to  deposit  himself  in  Theo- 
dora's new  wicker  rocker,  where  he  looked  and 
felt  lamentably  out  of  place. 

If  Theodora  felt  the  situation  to  be  awkward, 


14  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

she  carried  it  off  superbly.  She  had  never  looked 
handsomer,  and  Ludovic  perceived  that  she  wore 
her  second  best  silk  dress.  He  wondered  miser- 
ably if  she  had  donned  it  in  expectation  of  his 
rival's  call.  She  had  never  put  on  silk  dresses  for 
him.  Ludovic  had  always  been  the  meekest  and 
mildest  of  mortals,  but  he  felt  quite  murderous 
as  he  sat  mutely .  there  and  listened  to  Arnold 
Sherman's  polished  conversation. 

"  You  should  just  have  been  here  to  see  him 
glowering,"  Theodora  told  the  delighted  Anne 
the  next  day.  "  It  may  be  wicked  of  me,  but  I 
felt  real  glad.  I  was  afraid  he  might  stay  away 
and  sulk.  So  long  as  he  comes  here  and  sulks  I 
don't  worry.  But  he  is  feeling  badly  enough,  poor 
soul,  and  I'm  really  eaten  up  by  remorse.  He 
tried  to  outstay  Mr.  Sherman  last  night,  but  he 
didn't  manage  it.  You  never  saw  a  more  de- 
pressed-looking creature  than  he  was  as  he  hur- 
ried down  the  lane.  Yes,  he  actually  hurried." 

The  following  Sunday  evening  Arnold  Sherman 
walked  to  church  with  Theodora,  and  sat  with 
her.  When  they  came  in  Ludovic  Speed  sud- 
denly stood  up  in  his  pew  under  the  gallery.  He 
sat  down  again  at  once,  but  everybody  in  view 
had  seen  him,  and  that  night  folks  in  all  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Grafton  River  discussed  the  dra- 
matic occurrence  with  keen  enjoyment. 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC         15 

"  Yes,  he  jumped  right  up  as  if  he  was  pulled 
to  his  feet,  while  the  minister  was  reading  the 
chapter,"  said  his  cousin,  Lorella  Speed,  who  had 
been  in  church,  to  her  sister,  who  had  not.  "  His 
face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  his  eyes  were 
just  glaring  out  of  his  head.  I  never  felt  so 
thrilled,  I  declare!  I  almost  expected  him  to  fly 
at  them  then  and  there.  But  he  just  gave  a  sort 
of  gasp  and  set  down  again.  I  don't  know  whether 
Theodora  Dix  saw  him  or  not.  She  looked  as  cool 
and  unconcerned  as  you  please." 

Theodora  had  not  seen  Ludovic,  but  if  she 
looked  cool  and  unconcerned,  her  appearance  be- 
lied her,  for  she  felt  miserably  flustered.  She  could 
not  prevent , Arnold  Sherman  coming  to  church 
with  her,  but  it  seemed  to  her  like  going  too  far. 
People  did  not  go  to  church  and  sit  together  in 
Grafton  unless  they  were  the  next  thing  to  being 
engaged.  What  if  this  filled  Ludovic  with  the 
narcotic  of  despair  instead  of  wakening  him  up ! 
She  sat  through  the  service  in  misery  and  heard 
not  one  word  of  the  sermon. 

But  Ludovic's  spectacular  performances  were 
not  yet  over.  The  Speeds  might  be  hard  to  get 
started,  but  once  they  were  started  their  mo- 
mentum was  irresistible.  When  Theodora  and 
Mr.  Sherman  came  out  Ludovic  was  waiting  on 
the  steps.  He  stood  up  straight  and  stern,  with 


16  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

his  head  thrown  back  and  his  shoulders  squared. 
There  was  open  defiance  in  the  look  he  cast  on 
his  rival,  and  masterfulness  in  the  mere  touch  of 
the  hand  he  laid  on  Theodora's  arm. 

"  May  I  see  you  home,  Miss  Dix?  "  his  words 
said.  His  tone  said,  "  I  am  going  to  see  you 
home  whether  or  no." 

Theodora,  with  a  deprecating  look  at  Arnold 
Sherman,  took  his  arm,  and  Ludovic  marched 
her  across  the  green  amid  a  silence  which  the  very 
horses  tied  to  the  storm  fence  seemed  to  share. 
For  Ludovic  'twas  a  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life. 

Anne  walked  all  the  way  over  from  Avonlea  the 
next  day  to  hear  the  news.  Theodora  smiled  con- 
sciously. 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  settled  at  last,  Anne.  Coming 
home  last  night  Ludovic  asked  me  plump  and 
plain  to  marry  him,  —  Sunday  and  all  as  it  was. 
It's  to  be  right  away  —  for  Ludovic  won't  be 
put  off  a  week  longer  than  necessary." 

11  So  Ludovic  Speed  has  been  hurried  up  to 
some  purpose  at  last,"  said  Mr.  Sherman,  when 
Anne  called  in  at  Echo  Lodge,  brimful  with  her 
news.  "  And  you  are  delighted,  of  course,  and 
my  poor  pride  must  be  the  scapegoat.  I  shall 
always  be  remembered  in  Grafton  as  the  man 
from  Boston  who  wanted  Theodora  Dix  and 
couldn't  get  her." 


THE    HURRYING    OF    LUDOVIC         17 

"  But  that  won't  be  true,  you  know,"  said 
Anne  comfortingly. 

Arnold  Sherman  thought  of  Theodora's  ripe 
beauty,  and  the  mellow  companionableness  she 
had  revealed  in  their  brief  intercourse. 

"I'm  not  perfectly  sure  of  that,"  he  said,  with 
a  half  sigh. 


II 

OLD  LADY  LLOYD 

/.    The  May  Chapter 

SPENCERVALE  gossip  always  said  that  "  Old 
Lady  Lloyd  "  was  rich  and  mean  and  proud. 
Gossip,  as  usual,  was  one-third  right  and  two- 
thirds  wrong.  Old  Lady  Lloyd  was  neither  rich 
nor  mean ;  in  reality  she  was  pitifully  poor  —  so 
poor  that  "  Crooked  Jack  "  Spencer,  who  dug  her 
garden  and  chopped  her  wood  for  her,  was  opu- 
lent by  contrast ;  for  he,  at  least,  never  lacked  three 
meals  a  day,  and  the  Old  Lady  could  sometimes 
achieve  no  more  than  one.  But  she  was  very 
proud  —  so  proud  that  she  would  have  died  rather 
than  let  the  Spencervale  people,  among  whom  she 
had  queened  it  in  her  youth,  suspect  how  poor  she 
was  and  to  what  straits  was  sometimes  reduced. 
She  much  preferred  to  have  them  think  her  mi- 
serly and  odd  —  a  queer  old  recluse  who  never  went 
anywhere,  even  to  church,  and  who  paid  the 
smallest  subscription  to  the  minister's  salary  of 
anyone  in  the  congregation. 
18 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  19 

"And  her  just  rolling  in  wealth!"  they  said 
indignantly.  "  Well,  she  didn't  get  her  miserly 
ways  from  her  parents.  They  were  real  generous 
and  neighbourly.  There  never  was  a  finer  gentle- 
man than  old  Doctor  Lloyd.  He  was  always  doing 
kindnesses  to  everybody;  and  he  had  a  way  of 
doing  them  that  made  you  feel  as  if  you  was  doing 
the  favour,  not  him.  Well,  well,  let  Old  Lady 
Lloyd  keep  herself  and  her  money  to  herself  if 
she  wants  to.  If  she  doesn't  want  our  company, 
she  doesn't  have  to  surfer  it,  that's  all.  Reckon  she 
isn't  none  too  happy  for  all  her  money  and  pride." 

No,  the  Old  Lady  was  none  too  happy,  that  was 
unfortunately  true.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  happy 
when  your  life  is  eaten  up  with  loneliness  and 
emptiness  on  the  spiritual  side,  and  when,  on  the 
material  side,  all  you  have  between  you  and  star- 
vation is  the  little  money  your  hens  bring  you  in. 

The  Old  Lady  lived  "  away  back  at  the  old 
Lloyd  place,"  as  it  was  always  called.  It  was  a 
quaint,  low-eaved  house,  with  big  chimneys  and 
square  windows  and  with  spruces  growing  thickly 
all  around  it.  The  Old  Lady  lived  there  all  alone 
and  there  were  weeks  at  a  time  when  she  never 
saw  a  human  being  except  Crooked  Jack.  What 
the  Old  Lady  did  with  herself  and  how  she  put 
in  her  time  was  a  puzzle  the  Spencervale  people 
could  not  solve.  The  children  believed  she  amused 


20  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

herself  counting  the  gold  in  the  big  black  box 
under  her  bed.  Spencervale  children  held  the 
Old  Lady  in  mortal  terror ;  some  of  them  —  the 
"  Spencer  Road  "  fry  —  believed  she  was  a  witch; 
all  of  them  would  run  if,  when  wandering  about 
the  woods  in  search  of  berries  or  spruce  gum,  they 
saw  at  a  distance  the  spare,  upright  form  of  the 
Old  Lady,  gathering  sticks  for  her  fire.  Mary 
Moore  was  the  only  one  who  was  quite  sure  she 
was  not  a  witch. 

"  Witches  are  always  ugly,"  she  said  decisively, 
"  and  Old  Lady  Lloyd  isn't  ugly.  She's  real 
pretty  —  she's  got  such  soft  white  hair  and  big 
black  eyes  and  a  little  white  face.  Those  Road 
children  don't  know  what  they're  talking  of. 
Mother  says  they're  a  very  ignorant  crowd." 

"  Well,  she  doesn't  ever  go  to  church,  and  she 
mutters  and  talks  to  herself  all  the  time  she's  pick- 
ing up  sticks,"  maintained  Jimmy  Kimball  stoutly. 

The  Old  Lady  talked  to  herself  because  she  was 
really  very  fond  of  company  and  conversation. 
To  be  sure,  when  you  have  talked  to  nobody  but 
yourself  for  nearly  twenty  years  it  is  apt  to  grow 
somewhat  monotonous;  and  there  were  times 
when  the  Old  Lady  would  have  sacrificed  every- 
thing but  her  pride  for  a  little  human  companion- 
ship. At  such  times  she  felt  very  bitter  and  re- 
sentful towards  Fate  for  having  taken  everything 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  21 

from  her.  She  had  nothing  to  love,  and  that  is 
about  as  unwholesome  a  condition  as  is  possible 
to  anyone. 

It  was  always  hardest  in  the  spring.  Oncejupon 
a  time  the  Old  Lady  —  when  she  had  not  been  the 
Old  Lady,  but  pretty,  wilful,  high-spirited  Mar- 
garet Lloyd  —  had  loved  springs ;  now  she  hated 
them  because  they  hurt  her;  and  this  particular 
spring  of  this  particular  May  chapter  hurt  her 
more  than  any  that  had  gone  before.  The  Old 
Lady  felt  as  if  she  could  not  endure  the  ache  of  it. 
Everything  hurt  her  —  the  new  green  tips  on  the 
firs,  the  fairy  mists  down  in  the  little  beech  hollow 
below  the  house,  the  fresh  smell  of  the  red  earth 
Crooked  Jack  spaded  up  in  her  garden.  The  Old 
Lady  lay  awake  all  one  moonlit  night  and  cried 
for  very  heartache.  She  even  forgot  her  body 
hunger  in  her  soul  hunger;  and  the  Old  Lady  had 
been  hungry,  more  or  less,  all  that  week.  She 
was  living  on  store  biscuits  and  water,  so  that  she 
might  be  able  to  pay  Crooked  Jack  for  digging 
her  garden.  When  the  pale,  lovely  dawn-colour 
came  stealing  up  the  sky  behind  the  spruces  the 
Old  Lady  buried  her  face  in  her  pillow  and  re- 
fused to  look  at  it. 

"  I  hate  the  new  day,"  she  said  rebelliously. 
"  It  will  be  just  like  all  the  other  hard,  common 
days.  I  don't  want  to  get  up  and  live  it.  And  oh, 


22  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

to  think  that  long  ago  I  reached  out  my  hands 
joyfully  to  every  new  day,  as  to  a  friend  who  was 
bringing  me  good  tidings!  I  loved  the  mornings 
then  —  sunny  or  gray,  they  were  as  delightful 
as  an  unread  book  —  and  now  I  hate  them — • 
hate  them  —  hate  them!" 

But  the  Old  Lady  got  up  nevertheless,  for  she 
knew  Crooked  Jack  would  be  coming  early  to 
finish  the  garden.  She  arranged  her  beautiful, 
thick,  white  hair  very  carefully,  and  put  on  her 
purple  silk  dress  with  the  little  gold  spots  in  it. 
The  Old  Lady  always  wore  silk  from  motives  of 
economy.  It  was  much  cheaper  to  wear  a  silk 
dress  that  had  belonged  to  her  mother  than  to  buy 
new  print  at  the  store.  The  Old  Lady  had  plenty 
of  silk  dresses  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother. 
She  wore  them  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and 
Spencervale  people  considered  it  an  additional 
evidence  of  her  pride.  As  for  the  fashion  of  them, 
it  was,  of  course,  just  because  she  was  too  mean  to 
have  them  made  over.  They  did  not  dream  that 
the  Old  Lady  never  put  on  one  of  the  silk  dresses 
without  agonizing  over  its  unfashionableness,  and 
that  even  the  eyes  of  Crooked  Jack  cast  on  her 
antique  flounces  and  overskirts  was  almost  more 
than  her  feminine  vanity  could  endure. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Old  Lady  had  not 
welcomed  the  new  day,  its  beauty  charmed  her 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  23 

when  she  went  out  for  a  walk  after  her  dinner  — 
or,  rather,  after  her  mid-day  biscuit.  It  was  so 
fresh,  so  sweet,  so  virgin;  and  the  spruce  woods 
around  the  old  Lloyd  place  were  athrill  with  busy 
spring  doings  and  all  sprinkled  through  with  young 
lights  and  shadows.  Some  of  their  delight  found 
its  way  into  the  Old  Lady's  bitter  heart  as  she 
wandered  through  them,  and  when  she  came  out 
at  the  little  plank  bridge  over  the  brook  down 
under  the  beeches  she  felt  almost  gentle  and  tender 
once  more.  There  was  one  big  beech  there,  in 
particular,  which  the  Old  Lady  loved  for  reasons 
best  known  to  herself  —  a  great,  tall  beech  with 
a  trunk  like  the  shaft  of  a  gray  marble  column  and 
a  leafy  spread  of  branches  over  the  still,  golden- 
brown  pool  made  beneath  it  by  the  brook.  It  had 
been  a  young  sapling  in  the  days  that  were  haloed 
by  the  vanished  glory  of  the  Old  Lady's  life. 

The  Old  Lady  heard  childish  voices  and  laugh- 
ter afar  up  the  lane  which  led  to  William  Spencer's 
place  just  above  the  woods.  William  Spencer's 
front  lane  ran  out  to  the  main  road  in  a  different 
direction,  but  this  "  back  lane  "  furnished  a  short 
cut  and  his  children  always  went  to  school  that  way. 

The  Old  Lady  shrank  hastily  back  behind  a 
clump  of  young  spruces.  She  did  not  like  the  Spen- 
cer children  because  they  always  seemed  so  afraid 
of  her.  Through  the  spruce  screen  she  could  see 


24  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

them  coming  gaily  down  the  lane  —  the  two  older 
ones  in  front,  the  twins  behind,  clinging  to  the 
hands  of  a  tall,  slim,  young  girl  —  the  new  music 
teacher  probably.  The  Old  Lady  had  heard  from 
the  egg  pedlar  that  she  was  going  to  board  at 
William  Spencer's,  but  she  had  not  heard  her  name. 

She  looked  at  her  with  some  curiosity  as  they 
drew  near  —  and  then  all  at  once  the  Old  Lady's 
heart  gave  a  great  bound  and  began  to  beat  as 
it  had  not  beaten  for  years,  while  her  breath  came 
quickly  and  she  trembled  violently.  Who  — 
who  could  this  girl  be? 

Under  the  new  music  teacher's  straw  hat  were 
masses  of  fine  chestnut  hair  of  the  very  shade  and 
wave  that  the  Old  Lady  remembered  on  another 
head  in  vanished  years;  from  under  those  waves 
looked  large,  violet-blue  eyes  with  very  black 
lashes  and  brows  —  and  the  Old  Lady  knew  those 
eyes  as  well  as  she  knew  her  own;  and  the  new 
music  teacher's  face,  with  all  its  beauty  of  delicate 
outline  and  dainty  colouring  and  glad,  buoyant 
youth,  was  a  face  from  the  Old  Lady's  past  — 
a  perfect  resemblance  in  every  respect  save  one; 
the  face  which  the  Old  Lady  remembered  had 
been  weak,  with  all  its  charm ;  but  this  girl's  face 
possessed  a  fine,  dominant  strength  compact  of 
sweetness  and  womanliness.  As  she  passed  by 
the  Old  Lady's  hiding  place  she  laughed  at  some- 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  25 

thing  one  of  the  children  said;  and  oh,  but  the 
Old  Lady  knew  that  laughter  well.  She  had  heard 
it  before  under  that  very  beech  tree. 

She  watched  them  until  they  disappeared  over 
the  wooded  hill  beyond  the  bridge;  and  then  she 
went  back  home  as  if  she  walked  in  a  dream. 
Crooked  Jack  was  delving  vigorously  in  the 
garden;  ordinarily  the  Old  Lady  did  not  talk 
much  with  Crooked  Jack,  for  she  disliked  his 
weakness  for  gossip;  but  now  she  went  into  the 
garden,  a  stately  old  figure  in  her  purple,  gold- 
spotted  silk,  with  the  sunshine  gleaming  on  her 
white  hair. 

Crooked  Jack  had  seen  her  go  out  and  had  re- 
marked to  himself  that  the  Old  Lady  was  losing 
ground;  she  was  pale  and  peaked-looking.  He 
now  concluded  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  The  Old 
Lady's  cheeks  were  pink  and  her  eyes  shining. 
Somewhere  in  her  walk  she  had  shed  ten  years  at 
least.  Crooked  Jack  leaned  on  his  spade  and  de- 
cided that  there  weren't  many  finer  looking  women 
anywhere  than  Old  Lady  Lloyd.  Pity  she  was 
such  an  old  miser! 

"  Mr.  Spencer,"  said  the  Old  Lady  graciously 
—  she  always  spoke  very  graciously  to  her  infe- 
riors when  she  talked  to  them  at  all  —  "  can  you 
tell  me  the  name  of  the  new  music  teacher  who  is 
boarding  at  Mr.  William  Spencer's?  " 


26  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Sylvia  Gray,"  said  Crooked  Jack. 

The  Old  Lady's  heart  gave  another  great  bound. 
But  she  had  known  it  —  she  had  known  that  girl 
with  Leslie  Gray's  hair  and  eyes  and  laugh  must 
be  Leslie  Gray's  daughter. 

Crooked  Jack  spat  on  his  hand  and  resumed  his 
work  but  his  tongue  went  faster  than  his  spade, 
and  the  Old  Lady  listened  greedily.  For  the  first 
time  she  enjoyed  and  blessed  Crooked  Jack's 
garrulity  and  gossip.  Every  word  he  uttered  was 
as  an  apple  of  gold  in  a  picture  of  silver  to  her. 

He  had  been  working  at  William  Spencer's  the 
day  the  new  music  teacher  had  come,  and  what 
Crooked  Jack  couldn't  find  out  about  any  person 
in  one  whole  day  —  at  least  as  far  as  outward  life 
went  —  was  hardly  worth  finding  out.  Next  to 
discovering  things  did  he  love  telling  them,  and 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  which  enjoyed  that  ensu- 
ing half -hour  more  —  Crooked  Jack  or  the  Old 
Lady. 

Crooked  Jack's  account,  boiled  down,  amounted 
to  this;  both  Miss  Gray's  parents  had  died  when 
she  was  a  baby;  she  had  been  brought  up  by  an 
aunt;  she  was  very  poor  and  very  ambitious. 

"  Wants  a  moosical  eddication,"  finished  up 
Crooked  Jack,  "  and,  by  jingo,  she  orter  •  have 
it,  for  anything  like  the  voice  of  her  I  never  heerd. 
She  sung  for  us  that  evening  after  supper  and  I 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  27 

thought  'twas  an  angel  singing.  It  just  went 
through  me  like  a  shaft  o'  light.  The  Spencer 
young  ones  are  crazy  over  her  already.  She's  got 
twenty  pupils  around  here  and  in  Grafton  and 
Avonlea." 

When  the  Old  Lady  had  found  out  everything 
Crooked  Jack  could  tell  her,  she  went  into  the 
house  and  sat  down  by  the  window  of  her  little 
sitting-room  to  think  it  all  over.  She  was  tingling 
from  head  to  foot  with  excitement. 

Leslie's  daughter!  This  Old  Lady  had  had  her 
romance  once.  Long  ago  —  forty  years  ago  — 
she  had  been  engaged  to  Leslie  Gray,  a  young  col- 
lege student  who  taught  in  Spencervale  for  the 
summer  term  one  year  —  the  golden  summer  of 
Margaret  Lloyd's  life.  Leslie  had  been  a  shy, 
dreamy,  handsome  fellow  with  literary  ambitions, 
which,  as  he  and  Margaret  both  firmly  believed, 
would  one  day  bring  him  fame  and  fortune. 

Then  there  had  been  a  foolish,  bitter  quarrel 
at  the  end  of  that  golden  summer.  Leslie  had  gone 
away  in  anger;  afterwards  he  had  written;  but 
Margaret  Lloyd,  still  in  the  grasp  of  her  pride 
and  resentment,  had  sent  a  harsh  answer.  No 
more  letters  came;  Leslie  Gray  never  returned; 
and  one  day  Margaret  wakened  to  the  realization 
that  she  had  put  love  out  of  her  life  for  ever.  She 
knew  it  would  never  be  hers  again ;  and  from  that 


28  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

moment  her  feet  were  turned  from  youth  to  walk 
down  the  valley  of  shadow  to  a  lonely,  eccentric 
age. 

Many  years  later  she  heard  of  Leslie's  marriage; 
then  came  news  of  his  death,  after  a  life  that  had 
not  fulfilled  his  dreams  for  him.  Nothing  more 
she  had  heard  or  known  —  nothing  to  this  day, 
when  she  had  seen  his  daughter  pass  her  by  unsee- 
ing in  the  beech  hollow. 

"  His  daughter!  And  she  might  have  been  my 
daughter,"  murmured  the  Old  Lady.  "  Oh,  if 
I  could  only  know  her  and  love  her  —  and  per- 
haps win  her  love  in  return!  But  I  cannot.  I 
could  not  have  Leslie  Gray's  daughter  know  how 
poor  I  am  —  how  low  I  have  been  brought.  I 
could  not  bear  that. .  And  to  think  she  is  living 
so  near  me,  the  darling  —  just  up  the  lane  and  over 
the  hill.  I  can  see  her  go  by  every  day  —  I  can 
have  that  dear  pleasure,  at  least.  But  oh,  if  I 
could  only  do  something  for  her  —  give  her  some 
little  pleasure!  It  would  be  such  a  delight." 

When  the  Old  Lady  happened  to  go  into  her 
spare  room  that  evening  she  saw  from  it  a  light 
shining  through  a  gap  in  the  trees  on  the  hill. 
She  knew  that  it  shone  from  the  Spencers'  spare 
room.  So  it  was  Sylvia's  light.  The  Old  Lady 
stood  in  the  darkness  and  watched  it  until  it  went 
out  —  watched  it  with  a  great  sweetness  breath- 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  29 

ing  in  her  heart,  such  as  rises  from  old  rose-leaves 
when  they  are  stirred.  She  fancied  Sylvia  moving 
about  her  room,  brushing  and  braiding  her  long, 
glistening  hair  —  laying  aside  her  little  trinkets 
and  girlish  adornments  —  making  her  simple  prep- 
arations for  sleep.  When  the  light  went  out  the 
Old  Lady  pictured  a  slight  white  figure  kneeling 
by  the  window  in  the  soft  starshine;  and  the 
Old  Lady  knelt  down  then  and  there  and  said  her 
own  prayers  in  fellowship.  She  said  the  simple 
form  of  words  she  had  always  used;  but  a  new 
spirit  seemed  to  inspire  them;  and  she  finished 
with  a  new  petition — "  Let  me  think  of  something 
I  can  do  for  her,  dear  Father  —  some  little,  little 
thing  that  I  can  do  for  her." 

The  Old  Lady  had  slept  in  the  same  room  all 
her  life  —  the  one  looking  north  into  the  spruces 
—  and  loved  it ;  but  the  next  day  she  moved  into 
the  spare  room  without  a  regret.  It  was  to  be  her 
room  after  this;  she  must  be  where  she  could  see 
Sylvia's  light;  she  put  the  bed  where  she  could 
lie  in  it  and  look  at  that  earth  star  which  had 
suddenly  shone  across  the  twilight  shadows  of  her 
heart.  She  felt  very  happy;  she  had  not  felt 
happy  for  many  years;  but  now  a  strange,  new, 
dream-like  interest,  remote  from  the  harsh  reali- 
ties of  her  existence,  but  none  the  less  comforting 
and  alluring,  had  entered  into  her  life.  Besides, 


30  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

she  had  thought  of  something  she  could  do  for 
Sylvia  —  "  a  little,  little  thing  "  that  might  give 
her  pleasure. 

Spencervale  people  were  wont  to  say  regret- 
fully that  there  were  no  Mayflowers  in  Spencer- 
vale  ;  the  Spencervale  young  fry,  when  they  wanted 
Mayflowers,  thought  they  had  to  go  over  to  the 
barrens  at  Avonlea,  six  miles  away,  for  them. 
Old  Lady  Lloyd  knew  better.  In  her  many  long, 
solitary  rambles  she  had  discovered  a  little  clear- 
ing far  back  in  the  woods  —  a  southward-sloping, 
sandy  hill  on  a  tract  of  woodland  belonging  to  a 
man  who  lived  in  town  —  which  in  spring  was 
starred  over  with  the  pink  and  white  of  arbutus. 

To  this  clearing  the  Old  Lady  betook  herself 
that  afternoon,  walking  through  wood  lanes  and 
under  dim  spruce  arches  like  a  woman  with  a  glad 
purpose.  All  at  once  the  spring  was  dear  and 
beautiful  to  her  once  more;  for  love  had  entered 
again  into  her  heart,  and  her  starved  soul  was 
feasting  on  its  divine  nourishment. 

Old  Lady  Lloyd  found  a  wealth  of  Mayflowers 
on  the  sandy  hill.  She  filled  her  basket  with  them, 
gloating  over  the  loveliness  which  was  to  give 
pleasure  to  Sylvia.  When  she  got  home  she  wrote 
on  a  slip  of  paper,  "  For  Sylvia."  It  was  not  likely 
anyone  in  Spencervale  would  know  her  handwri- 
ting, but,  to  make  sure,  she  disguised  it,  writing 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  31 

in  round,  big  letters  like  a  child's.  She  carried 
her  Mayflowers  down  to  the  hollow  and  heaped 
them  in  a  recess  between  the  big  roots  of  the  old 
beech,  with  the  little  note  thrust  through  a  stem 
on  top. 

Then  the  Old  Lady  deliberately  hid  behind  the 
spruce  clump.  She  had  put  on  her  dark  green  silk 
on  purpose  for  hiding.  She  had  not  long  to  wait. 
Soon  Sylvia  Gray  came  down  the  hill  with  Mattie 
Spencer.  When  she  reached  the  bridge  she  saw 
the  Mayflowers  and  gave  an  exclamation  of  de- 
light. Then  she  saw  her  name  and  her  expression 
changed  to  wonder.  The  Old  Lady,  peering 
through  the  boughs,  could  have  laughed  for  very 
pleasure  over  the  success  of  her  little  plot. 

"  For  me! "  said  Sylvia,  lifting  the  flowers. 
"  Can  they  really  be  for  me,  Mattie?  Who  could 
have  left  them  here?  " 

Mattie  giggled. 

"  I  believe  it  was  Chris  Stewart,"  she  said.  "  I 
know  he  was  over  at  Avonlea  last  night.  And  ma 
says  he's  taken  a  notion  to  you  —  she  knows  by 
the  way  he  looked  at  you  when  you  were  singing 
night  before  last.  It  would  be  just  like  him  to  do 
something  queer  like  this  —  he's  such  a  shy  fellow 
with  the  girls." 

Sylvia  frowned  a  little.  She  did  not  like  Mat- 
tie's  expressions;  but  she  did  like  Mayflowers, 


32  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

and  she  did  not  dislike  Chris  Stewart,  who  had 
seemed  to  her  merely  a  nice,  modest,  country  boy. 
She  lifted  the  flowers  and  buried  her  face  in  them. 

"  Anyway,  I'm  much  obliged  to  the  giver,  who- 
ever he  or  she  is,"  she  said  merrily.  "  There's 
nothing  I  love  like  Mayflowers.  Oh,  how  sweet 
they  are!" 

When  they  had  passed  the  Old  Lady  emerged 
from  her  lurking  place,  flushed  with  triumph.  It 
did  not  vex  her  that  Sylvia  should  think  Chris 
Stewart  had  given  her  the  flowers ;  nay,  it  was  all 
the  better,  since  she  would  be  the  less  likely  to 
suspect  the  real  donor.  The  main  thing  was  that 
Sylvia  should  have  the  delight  of  them.  That 
quite  satisfied  the  Old  Lady,  who  went  back  to 
her  lonely  house  with  the  cockles  of  her  heart  all 
in  a  glow. 

It  soon  was  a  matter  of  gossip  in  Spencervale 
that  Chris  Stewart  was  leaving  Mayflowers  at  the 
beech  hollow  for  the  music  teacher  every  other 
day.  Chris  himself  denied  it,  but  he  was  not  be- 
lieved. Firstly,  there  were  no  Mayflowers  in 
Spencervale;  secondly,  Chris  had  to  go  to  Car- 
mody  every  other  day  to  haul  milk  to  the  butter 
factory  and  Mayflowers  grew  in  Carmody;  and, 
thirdly,  the  Stewarts  always  had  a  romantic  streak 
in  them.  Was  not  that  enough  circumstantial 
evidence  for  anybody? 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  33 

As  for  Sylvia,  she  did  not  mind  if  Chris  had  a 
boyish  admiration  for  her  and  expressed  it  thus 
delicately.  She  thought  it  very  nice  of  him,  in- 
deed, when  he  did  not  vex  her  with  any  other 
advances,  and  she  was  quite  content  to  enjoy  his 
Mayflowers. 

Old  Lady  Lloyd  heard  all  the  gossip  about  it 
from  the  egg  pedlar,  and  listened  to  him  with 
laughter  glimmering  far  down  in  her  eyes.  The 
egg  pedlar  went  away  and  vowed  he'd  never  seen 
the  Old  Lady  so  spry  as  she  was  this  spring;  she 
seemed  real  interested  in  the  young  folk's  doings. 

The  Old  Lady  kept  her  secret  and  grew  young 
in  it.  She  walked  back  to  the  Mayflower  hill  as 
long  as  the  Mayflowers  lasted;  and  she  always 
hid  in  the  spruces  to  see  Sylvia  Gray  go  by. 
Every  day  she  loved  her  more,  and  yearned  after 
her  more  deeply.  All  the  long  repressed  tenderness 
of  her  nature  overflowed  to  this  girl  who  was  un- 
conscious of  it.  She  was  proud  of  Sylvia's  grace 
and  beauty,  and  sweetness  of  voice  and  laughter. 
She  began  to  like  the  Spencer  children  because 
they  worshipped  Sylvia;  she  envied  Mrs.  Spencer 
because  the  latter  could  minister  to  Sylvia's  needs. 
Even  the  egg  pedlar  seemed  a  delightful  person 
because  he  brought  news  of  Sylvia  —  her  social 
popularity,  her  professional  success,  the  love  and 
admiration  she  had  won  already. 


34  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

The  Old  Lady  never  dreamed  of  revealing  her- 
self to  Sylvia.  That,  in  her  poverty,  was  not  to 
be  thought  of  for  a  moment.  It  would  have  been 
very  sweet  to  know  her  —  sweet  to  have  her  come 
to  the  old  house  —  sweet  to  talk  to  her  —  to  enter 
into  her  life.  But  it  might  not  be.  The  Old  Lady's 
pride  was  still  far  stronger  than  her  love.  It  was 
the  one  thing  she  had  never  sacrificed  and  never 
—  so  she  believed  —  could  sacrifice. 


//.  The  June  Chapter 

There  were  no  Mayflowers  in  June;  but  now 
the  Old  Lady's  garden  was  full  of  blossoms  and 
every  morning  Sylvia  found  a  bouquet  of  them 
by  the  beech  —  the  perfumed  ivory  of  white  nar- 
cissus, the  flame  of  tulips,  the  fairy  branches  of 
bleeding-heart,  the  pink-and-snow  of  little,  thorny, 
single,  sweet-breathed  early  roses.  The  Old  Lady 
had  no  fear  of  discovery,  for  the  flowers  that  grew 
in  her  garden  grew  in  every  other  Spencervale 
garden  as  well,  including  the  Stewart  garden. 
Chris  Stewart,  when  he  was  teased  about  the 
music  teacher,  merely  smiled  and  held  his  peace. 
Chris  knew  perfectly  well  who  was  the  real  giver 
of  those  flowers.  He  had  made  it  his  business  to 
find  out  when  the  Mayflower  gossip  started.  But 
since  it  was  evident  Old  Lady  Lloyd  did  not  wish 


OLD    LADY    LLOY0  35 

it  to  be  known  Chris  told  no  one.  Chris  had  al- 
ways liked  Old  Lady  Lloyd  ever  since  the  day, 
ten  years  before,  when  she  had  found  him  crying 
in  the  woods  with  a  cut  foot  and  had  taken  him 
into  her  house,  and  bathed  and  bound  the  wound, 
and  given  him  ten  cents  to  buy  candy  at  the  store. 
The  Old  Lady  went  without  her  supper  that  night 
because  of  it,  but  Chris  never  knew  that. 

The  Old  Lady  thought  it  a  most  beautiful  June. 
She  no  longer  hated  the  new  days;  on  the  con- 
trary she  welcomed  them. 

"  Every  day  is  an  uncommon  day  now,"  she 
said  jubilantly  to  herself  —  for  did  not  almost 
every  day  bring  her  a  glimpse  of  Sylvia?  Even 
on  rainy  days  the  Old  Lady  gallantly  braved  rheu- 
matism to  hide  behind  her  clump  of  dripping 
spruces  and  watch  Sylvia  pass.  The  only  days 
she  could  not  see  her  were  Sundays ;  and  no  Sun- 
days had  ever  seemed  so  long  to  Old  Lady  Lloyd 
as  those  June  Sundays  did. 

One  day  the  egg  pedlar  had  news  for  her. 

"  The  music  teacher  is  going  to  sing  a  solo  for 
a  collection  piece  to-morrow,"  he  told  her. 

The  Old  Lady's  black  eyes  flashed  with  inter- 
est. 

"  I  didn't  know  Miss  Gray  was  a  member  of  the 
choir,"  she  said. 

"  Jined  two  Sundays  ago.    I  tell  you  our  music 


36  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

is  something  worth  listening  to  now.  The  church' 11 
be  packed  to-morrow,  I  reckon  —  her  name's 
gone  all  over  the  country  for  singing.  You  ought 
to  come  and  hear  it,  Miss  Lloyd." 

The  pedlar  said  this  out  of  bravado,  merely  to 
show  he  wasn't  scared  of  the  Old  Lady,  for  all  her 
grand  airs.  The  Old  Lady  made  no  answer,  and 
he  thought  he  had  offended  her.  He  went  away, 
wishing  he  hadn't  said  it.  Had  he  but  known  it, 
the  Old  Lady  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  all 
and  any  egg  pedlars.  He  had  blotted  himself  and 
his  insignificance  out  of  her  consciousness  by  his 
last  sentence.  All  her  thoughts,  feelings,  and 
wishes  were  submerged  in  a  very  whirlpool  of 
desire  to  hear  Sylvia  sing  that  solo.  She  went  into 
the  house  in  a  tumult  and  tried  to  conquer  that 
desire.  She  could  not  do  it,  even  though  she 
summoned  all  her  pride  to  her  aid.  Pride 
said: 

"  You  will  have  to  go  to  church  to  hear  her. 
You  haven't  fit  clothes  to  go  to  church  in.  Think 
what  a  figure  you  will  make  before  them  all." 

But,  for  the  first  time,  a  more  insistent  voice 
than  pride  spoke  to  her  soul  —  and,  for  the  first 
time,  the  Old  Lady  listened  to  it.  It  was  too  true 
that  she  had  never  gone  to  church  since  the  day 
on  which  she  had  to  begin  wearing  her  mother's 
silk  dresses.  The  Old  Lady  herself  thought  that 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  37 

this  was  very  wicked;  and  she  tried  to  atone  by 
keeping  Sunday  very  strictly,  and  always  having 
a  little  service  of  her  own,  morning  and  evening. 
She  sang  three  hymns  in  her  cracked  voice,  prayed 
aloud,  and  read  a  sermon.  But  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  go  to  church  in  her  out-of-date 
clothes  —  she,  who  had  once  set  the  fashions  in 
Spencervale;  and  the  longer  she  stayed  away  the 
more  impossible  it  seemed  that  she  should  ever 
again  go.  Now  the  impossible  had  become,  not 
only  possible,  but  insistent.  She  must  go  to  church 
and  hear  Sylvia  sing,  no  matter  how  ridiculous 
she  appeared,  no  matter  how  people  talked  and 
laughed  at  her. 

Spencervale  congregation  had  a  mild  sensation 
the  next  afternoon.  Just  before  the  opening  of 
service  Old  Lady  Lloyd  walked  up  the  aisle  and 
sat  down  in  the  long-unoccupied  Lloyd  pew,  in 
front  of  the  pulpit. 

The  Old  Lady's  very  soul  was  writhing  within 
her.  She  recalled  the  reflection  she  had  seen  in  her 
mirror  before  she  left  —  the  old  black  silk  in  the 
mode  of  thirty  years  agone  and  the  queer  little 
bonnet  of  shirred  black  satin.  She  thought  how 
absurd  she  must  look  in  the  eyes  of  her  world. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  did  not  look  in  the  least 
absurd.  Some  women  might  have;  but  the  Old 
kady's  stately  distinction  of  carriage  and  figure 


38  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

was  so  subtly  commanding  that  it  did  away  with 
the  consideration  of  garmenting  altogether. 

The  Old  Lady  did  not  know  this.  But  she  did 
know  that  Mrs.  Kimball,  the  storekeeper's  wife, 
presently  rustled  into  the  next  pew  in  the  very 
latest  fashion  of  fabric  and  mode;  she  and  Mrs. 
Kimball  were  the  same  age,  and  there  had  been  a 
time  when  the  latter  had  been  content  to  imitate 
Margaret  Lloyd's  costumes  at  a  humble  distance. 
But  the  storekeeper  had  proposed,  and  things  were 
changed  now;  and  there  sat  poor  Old  Lady  Lloyd, 
feeling  the  change  bitterly,  and  half  wishing  she 
had  not  come  to  church  at  all. 

Then  all  at  once  the  Angel  of  Love  touched  these 
foolish  thoughts,  born  of  vanity  and  morbid 
pride,  and  they  melted  away  as  if  they  had  never 
been.  Sylvia  Gray  had  come  into  the  choir,  and 
was  sitting  just  where  the  afternoon  sunshine  fell 
over  her  beautiful  hair  like  a  halo.  The  Old  Lady 
looked  at  her  in  a  rapture  of  satisfied  longing  and 
thenceforth  the  service  was  blessed  to  her,  as 
anything  is  blessed  which  comes  through  the 
medium  of  unselfish  love,  whether  human  or  di- 
vine. Nay,  are  they  not  one  and  the  same,  differ- 
ing in  degree  only,  not  in  kind? 

The  Old  Lady  had  never  had  such  a  good,  satis- 
fying look  at  Sylvia  before.  All  her  former 
glimpses  had  been  stolen  and  fleeting.  Now  she 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  39 

sat  and  gazed  upon  her  to  her  hungry  heart's  con- 
tent, lingering  delightedly  over  every  little  charm 
and  loveliness  —  the  way  Sylvia's  shining  hair 
rippled  back  from  her  forehead,  the  sweet  little 
trick  she  had  of  dropping  quickly  her  long-lashed 
eyelids  when  she  encountered  too  bold  or  curious 
a  glance,  and  the  slender,  beautifully  modelled 
hands  —  so  like  Leslie  Gray's  hands  —  that  held 
her  hymn  book.  She  was  dressed  very  plainly 
in  a  black  skirt  and  a  white  shirtwaist ;  but  none 
of  the  other  girls  in  the  choir,  with  all  their  fine 
feathers,  could  hold  a  candle  to  her  —  as  the  egg 
pedlar  said  to  his  wife  going  home  from  church. 

The  Old  Lady  listened  to  the  opening  hymns 
with  keen  pleasure.  Sylvia's  voice  thrilled  through 
and  dominated  them  all.  But  when  the  ushers 
got  up  to  take  the  collection  an  undercurrent  of 
subdued  excitement  flowed  over  the  congregation. 
Sylvia  rose  and  came  forward  to  Janet  Moore's 
side  at  the  organ.  The  next  moment  her  beautiful 
voice  soared  through  the  building  like  the  very 
soul  of  melody  —  true,  clear,  powerful,  sweet. 
Nobody  in  Spencervale  had  ever  listened  to  such 
a  voice,  except  Old  Lady  Lloyd  herself,  who  in  her 
youth  had  heard  enough  good  singing  to  enable 
her  to  be  a  tolerable  judge  of  it.  She  realized  in- 
stantly that  this  girl  of  her  heart  had  a  great  gift 
—  a  gift  that  would  some  day  bring  her  fame  and 


40  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

fortune  if  it  could  be  duly  trained  and  devel- 
oped. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  I  came  to  church/'  thought 
Old  Lady  Lloyd. 

When  the  solo  was  ended  the  Old  Lady's  con- 
science compelled  her  to  drag  her  eyes  and 
thoughts  from  Sylvia,  and  fasten  them  on  the 
minister,  who  had  been  nattering  himself  all 
through  the  opening  portion  of  the  service  that 
Old  Lady  Lloyd  had  come  to  church  on  his  ac- 
count. He  was  newly  settled,  having  been  in 
charge  of  Spencervale  congregation  only  a  few 
months ;  he  was  a  clever  little  fellow  and  he  hon- 
estly thought  it  was  the  fame  of  his  preaching 
that  had  brought  Old  Lady  Lloyd  out  to  church. 

When  the  service  was  over  all  the  Old  Lady's 
neighbours  came  to  speak  to  her,  with  kindly  smile 
and  handshake.  They  thought  they  ought  to 
encourage  her,  now  that  she  had  made  a  start  in 
the  right  direction ;  the  Old  Lady  liked  their  cor- 
diality, and  liked  it  none  the  less  because  she  de- 
tected in  it  the  same  unconscious  respect  and  def- 
erence she  had  been  wont  to  receive  in  the  old 
days  —  a  respect  and  deference  which  her  per- 
sonality compelled  from  all  who  approached 
her.  The  Old  Lady  was  surprised  to  find  that  she 
could  command  it  still,  in  defiance  of  unfashion- 
able bonnet  and  ancient  attire. 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  41 

Janet  Moore  and  Sylvia  Gray  walked  home  from 
church  together. 

"  Did  you  see  Old  Lady  Lloyd  out  to-day?  " 
asked  Janet.  "  I  was  amazed  when  she  walked 
in.  She  has  never  been  to  church  in  my  recollec- 
tion. What  a  quaint  old  figure  she  is !  She's  very 
rich,  you  know,  but  she  wears  her  mother's  old 
clothes  and  never  gets  a  new  thing.  Some  people 
think  she  is  mean;  but,"  concluded  Janet  chari- 
tably, "  I  believe  it  is  simply  eccentricity." 

"  I  felt  that  was  Miss  Lloyd  as  soon  as  I  saw 
her,  although  I  had  never  seen  her  before,"  said 
Sylvia  dreamily.  "  I  have  been  wishing  to  see 
her  —  for  a  certain  reason.  She  has  a  very  striking 
face.  I  should  like  to  meet  her  —  to  know  her." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  likely  you  ever  will,"  said 
Janet  carelessly.  "  She  doesn't  like  young  people 
and  she  never  goes  anywhere.  I  don't  think  I'd 
like  to  know  her.  I'd  be  afraid  of  her  —  she  has 
such  stately  ways  and  such  strange,  piercing 
eyes." 

"  /  shouldn't  be  afraid  of  her,"  said  Sylvia  to 
herself,  as  she  turned  into  the  Spencer  lane.  "  But 
I  don't  expect  I'll  ever  become  acquainted  with 
her.  If  she  knew  who  I  am  I  suppose  she  would 
dislike  me.  I  suppose  she  never  suspects  that  I 
am  Leslie  Gray's  daughter." 

The  minister,  thinking  it  well  to  strike  while  the 


42  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

iron  was  hot,  went  up  to  call  on  Old  Lady  Lloyd 
the  very  next  afternoon.  He  went  in  fear  and 
trembling,  for  he  had  heard  things  about  Old 
Lady  Lloyd;  but  she  made  herself  so  agreeable 
in  her  high-bred  fashion  that  he  was  delighted  and 
told  his  wife  when  he  went  home  that  Spencervale 
people  didn't  understand  Miss  Lloyd.  This  was 
perfectly  true ;  but  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that 
the  minister  understood  her  either. 

He  made  only  one  mistake  in  tact,  but,  as  the 
Old  Lady  did  not  snub  him  for  it,  he  never  knew 
he  made  it.  When  he  was  leaving  he  said,  "  I 
hope  we  shall  see  you  at  church  next  Sunday,  Miss 
Lloyd." 

"  Indeed,  you  will,"  said  the  Old  Lady  emphat- 
ically. 

///.    The  July  Chapter 

The  first  day  of  July  Sylvia  found  a  little  birch 
bark  boat  full  of  strawberries  at  the  beech  in  the 
hollow.  They  were  the  earliest  of  the  season ;  the 
Old  Lady  had  found  them  in  one  of  her  secret 
haunts.  They  would  have  been  a  toothsome  ad- 
dition to  the  Old  Lady's  own  slender  bill  of 
fare ;  but  she  never  thought  of  eating  them.  She 
got  far  more  pleasure  out  of  the  thought  of  Syl- 
via's enjoying  them  for  her  tea.  Thereafter  the 
strawberries  alternated  with  the  flowers  as  long 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  43 

as  they  lasted,  and  then  came  blueberries  and 
raspberries.  The  blueberries  grew  far  away  and 
the  Old  Lady  had  many  a  tramp  after  them. 
Sometimes  her  bones  ached  at  night  because  of  it ; 
but  what  cared  the  Old  Lady  for  that?  Bone 
ache  is  easier  to  endure  than  soul  ache ;  and  the 
Old  Lady's  soul  had  stopped  aching  for  the  first 
time  in  many  a  year.  It  was  being  nourished 
with  heavenly  manna. 

One  evening  Crooked  Jack  came  up  to  fix  some- 
thing that  had  gone  wrong  with  the  Old  Lady's 
well.  The  Old  Lady  wandered  affably  out  to 
him;  for  she  knew  he  had  been  working  at  the 
Spencers'  all  day,  and  there  might  be  crumbs  of 
information  about  Sylvia  to  be  picked  up. 

"  I  reckon  the  music  teacher's  feeling  pretty 
blue  this  evening,"  Crooked  Jack  remarked,  after 
straining  the  Old  Lady's  patience  to  the  last  verge 
of  human  endurance  by  expatiating  on  William 
Spencer's  new  pump,  and  Mrs.  Spencer's  new 
washing-machine,  and  Amelia  Spencer's  new  young 
man. 

"  Why?  "  asked  the  Old  Lady,  turning  very  pale. 
Had  anything  happened  to  Sylvia? 

"  Well,  she's  been  invited  to  a  big  party  at  Mrs. 
Moore's  brother's  in  town,  and  she  hasn't  got  a 
dress  to  go  in,"  said  Crooked  Jack.  "  They're 
great  swells  and  everybody  will  be  got  up  regard- 


44  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

less.  Mrs.  Spencer  was  telling  me  about  it.  She 
says  Miss  Gray  can't  afford  a  new  dress  because 
she's  helping  to  pay  her  aunt's  doctor's  bills.  She 
says  she's  sure  Miss  Gray  feels  awful  disappointed 
over  it,  though  she  doesn't  let  on.  But  Mrs. 
Spencer  says  she  knows  she  was  crying  after  she 
went  to  bed  last  night." 

The  Old  Lady  turned  and  went  into  the  house 
abruptly.  This  was  dreadful.  Sylvia  must  go  to 
that  party  —  she  must.  But  how  was  it  to  be 
managed?  Through  the  Old  Lady's  brain  passed 
wild  thoughts  of  her  mother's  silk  dresses.  But 
none  of  them  would  be  suitable,  even  if  there  were 
time  to  make  one  over.  Never  had  the  Old  Lady 
so  bitterly  regretted  her  vanished  wealth. 

"  I've  only  two  dollars  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
"  and  I've  got  to  live  on  that  till  the  next  day  the 
egg  pedlar  comes  round.  Is  there  anything  I  can 
sell  —  anything?  Yes,  yes,  the  grape  jug!  " 

Up  to  this  time  the  Old  Lady  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  trying  to  sell  her  head  as  the  grape  jug. 
The  grape  jug  was  two  hundred  years  old  and  had 
been  in  the  Lloyd  family  ever  since  it  was  a  jug 
at  all.  It  was  a  big,  pot-bellied  affair,  festooned 
with  pink-gilt  grapes,  and  with  a  verse  of  poetry 
printed  on  one  side,  and  it  had  been  given  as  a 
wedding  present  to  the  Old  Lady's  great-grand- 
mother. As  long  as  the  Old  Lady  could  remember 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  45 

it  had  sat  on  the  top  shelf  in  the  cupboard  in  the 
sitting-room  wall,  far  too  precious  ever  to  be  used. 

Two  years  before,  a  woman  who  collected  old 
china  had  explored  Spencervale,  and,  getting  word 
of  the  grape  jug,  had  boldly  invaded  the  old  Lloyd 
place  and  offered  to  buy  it.  She  never,  to  her 
dying  day,  forgot  the  reception  the  Old  Lady  gave 
her;  but,  being  wise  in  her  day  and  generation, 
she  left  her  card,  saying  that  if  Miss  Lloyd  ever 
changed  her  mind  about  selling  the  jug  she  would 
find  that  she,  the  aforesaid  collector,  had  not 
changed  hers  about  buying  it.  People  who  make 
a  hobby  of  heirloom  china  must  meekly  overlook 
snubs,  and  this  particular  person  had  never  seen 
anything  she  coveted  so  much  as  that  grape  jug. 

The  Old  Lady  had  torn  the  card  to  pieces ;  but 
she  remembered  the  name  and  address.  She  went 
to  the  cupboard  and  took  down  the  beloved  jug. 

"  I  never  thought  to  part  with  it,"  she  said 
wistfully,  "  but  Sylvia  must  have  a  dress,  and  there 
is  no  other  way.  And,  after  all,  when  I'm  gone, 
who  would  there  be  to  have  it?  Strangers  would 
get  it  then  —  it  might  as  well  go  to  them  now. 
I'll  have  to  go  to  town  to-morrow  morning,  for 
there's  no  time  to  lose  if  the  party  is  Friday  night. 
I  haven't  been  to  town  for  ten  years.  I  dread  the 
thought  of  going,  more  than  parting  with  the  jug. 
But  for  Sylvia's  sake!  " 


46  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

It  was  all  over  Spencervale  by  the  next  morning 
that  Old  Lady  Lloyd  had  gone  to  town,  carrying 
a  carefully  guarded  box.  Everybody  wondered 
why  she  went;  most  people  supposed  she  had  be- 
come too  frightened  to  keep  her  money  in  a  black 
box  below  her  bed,  when  there  had  been  two 
burglaries  over  at  Carmody,  and  had  taken  it  to 
the  bank. 

The  Old  Lady  sought  out  the  address  of  the 
china  collector,  trembling  with  fear  that  she  might 
be  dead  or  gone.  But  the  collector  was  there,  very 
much  alive,  and  as  keenly  anxious  to  possess  the 
grape  jug  as  ever.  The  Old  Lady,  pallid  with  the 
pain  of  her  trampled  pride,  sold  the  grape  jug  and 
went  away,  believing  that  her  great-grandmother 
must  have  turned  over  in  her  grave  at  the  moment 
of  the  transaction.  Old  Lady  Lloyd  felt  like  a 
traitor  to  her  traditions. 

But  she  went  unflinchingly  to  a  big  store  and, 
guided  by  that  special  Providence  which  looks 
after  simple-minded  old  souls  in  their  dangerous 
excursions  into  the  world,  found  a  sympathetic 
clerk  who  knew  just  what  she  wanted  and  got  it  for 
her.  The  Old  Lady  selected  a  very  dainty  muslin 
gown,  with  gloves  and  slippers  in  keeping;  and 
she  ordered  it  sent  at  once,  expressage  prepaid,  to 
Miss  Sylvia  Gray,  in  care  of  William  Spencer, 
Spencervale. 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  47 

Then  she  paid  down  the  money  —  the  whole 
price  of  the  jug,  minus  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  rail- 
road fare  —  with  a  grand,  careless  air  and  de- 
parted. As  she  marched  erectly  down  the  aisle  of 
the  store,  she  encountered  a  sleek,  portly,  prosper- 
ous man  coming  in.  As  their  eyes  met  the  man 
started  and  his  bland  face  flushed  crimson;  he 
lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  confusedly.  But  the  Old 
Lady  looked  through  him  as  if  he  wasn't  there, 
and  passed  on  with  not  a  sign  of  recognition  about 
her.  He  took  one  step  after  her,  then  stopped  and 
turned  away,  with  a  rather  disagreeable  smile 
and  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

Nobody  would  have  guessed,  as  the  Old  Lady 
swept  out,  how  her  heart  was  seething  with  abhor- 
rence and  scorn.  She  would  not  have  had  the 
courage  to  come  to  town,  even  for  Sylvia's  sake, 
if  she  had  thought  she  would  meet  Andrew  Cam- 
eron. The  mere  sight  of  him  opened  up  anew  a 
sealed  fountain  of  bitterness  in  her  soul;  but  the 
thought  of  Sylvia  somehow  stemmed  the  torrent, 
and  presently  the  Old  Lady  was  smiling  rather 
triumphantly,  thinking  rightly  that  she  had  come 
off  best  in  that  unwelcome  encounter.  She,  at  any 
rate,  had  not  faltered  and  coloured,  and  lost  her 
presence  of  mind. 

"It  is  little  wonder  Tie  did,"  thought  the  Old 
Lady  vindictively.  It  pleased  her  that  Andrew 


48  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Cameron  should  lose,  before  her,  the  front  of  ada- 
mant he  presented  to  the  world.  He  was  her  cousin 
and  the  only  living  creature  Old  Lady  Lloyd  hated ; 
and  she  hated  and  despised  him  with  all  the  in- 
tensity of  her  intense  nature.  She  and  hers  had 
sustained  grievous  wrong  at  his  hands,  and  the 
Old  Lady  was  convinced  that  she  would  rather 
die  than  take  any  notice  of  his  existence. 

Presently,  she  resolutely  put  Andrew  Cameron 
out  of  her  mind.  It  was  desecration  to  think  of 
him  and  Sylvia  together.  When  she  laid  her  weary 
head  on  her  pillow  that  night  she  was  so  happy 
that  even  the  thought  of  the  vacant  shelf  in  the 
room  below,  where  the  grape  jug  had  always  been, 
gave  her  only  a  momentary  pang. 

"  It's  sweet  to  sacrifice  for  one  we  love  —  it's 
sweet  to  have  someone  to  sacrifice  for,"  thought 
the  Old  Lady. 

Desire  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on.  The  Old 
Lady  thought  she  was  content ;  but  Friday  evening 
came  and  found  her  in  a  perfect  fever  to  see  Sylvia 
in  her  party  dress.  It  was  not  enough  to  fancy  her 
in  it;  nothing  would  do  the  Old  Lady  but  seeing 
her. 

"  And  I  shall  see  her,"  said  the  Old  Lady  reso- 
lutely, looking  out  from  her  window  at  Sylvia's 
light  gleaming  through  the  firs.  She  wrapped  her- 
self in  a  dark  shawl  and  crept  out,  slipping  down 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  49 

to  the  hollow  and  up  the  wood  lane.  It  was  a 
misty,  moonlight  night,  and  a  wind,  fragrant  with 
the  aroma  of  clover  fields,  blew  down  the  lane  to 
meet  her. 

"  I  wish  I  could  take  your  perfume  —  the  soul 
of  you  —  and  pour  it  into  her  life,"  said  the  Old 
Lady  aloud  to  that  wind. 

Sylvia  Gray  was  standing  in  her  room,  ready 
for  the  party.  Before  her  stood  Mrs.  Spencer  and 
Amelia  Spencer  and  all  the  little  Spencer  girls, 
in  an  admiring  semi-circle.  There  was  another 
spectator.  Outside,  under  the  lilac  bush,  Old  Lady 
Lloyd  was  standing.  She  could  see  Sylvia  plainly, 
in  her  dainty  dress,  with  the  pale  pink  roses  Old 
Lady  Lloyd  had  left  at  the  beech  that  day  for  her 
in  her  hair.  Pink  as  they  were,  they  were  not  so 
pink  as  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  shone  like  stars. 
Amelia  Spencer  put  up  her  hand  to  push  back  a 
rose  that  had  fallen  a  little  out  of  place,  and  the 
Old  Lady  envied  her  fiercely. 

"  That  dress  couldn't  have  fitted  better  if  it  had 
been  made  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Spencer  admiringly. 
"  Ain't  she  lovely,  Amelia?  Who  could  have  sent 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I  feel  sure  that  Mrs.  Moore  was  the  fairy 
godmother,"  said  Sylvia.  "  There  is  nobody  else 
who  would.  It  was  dear  of  her  —  she  knew  I 
wished  so  much  to  go  to  the  party  with  Janet. 


50  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

I  wish  Aunty  could  see  me  now."  Sylvia  gave  a 
little  sigh  in  spite  of  her  joy.  "  There's  nobody 
else  to  care  very  much." 

Ah,  Sylvia,  you  were  wrong!  There  was  some- 
body else  —  somebody  who  cared  very  much  — 
an  Old  Lady,  with  eager,  devouring  eyes,  who  was 
standing  under  the  lilac  bush  and  who  presently 
stole  away  through  the  moonlit  orchard  to  the 
woods  like  a  shadow,  going  home  with  a  vision  of 
you  in  your  girlish  beauty  to  companion  her 
through  the  watches  of  that  summer  night. 


IV.     The  August  Chapter 

One  day  the  minister's  wife  rushed  in  where 
Spencervale  people  had  feared  to  tread,  went 
boldly  to  Old  Lady  Lloyd,  and  asked  her  if  she 
wouldn't  come  to  their  Sewing  Circle,  which  met 
fortnightly  on  Saturday  afternoons. 

"  We  are  filling  a  box  to  send  to  our  Trinidad 
missionary,"  said  the  minister's  wife,  "  and  we 
should  be  so  pleased  to  have  you  come,  Miss 
Lloyd." 

The  Old  Lady  was  on  the  point  of  refusing  rather 
haughtily.  Not  that  she  was  opposed  to  missions 
—  or  sewing  circles  either  —  quite  the  contrary ; 
but  she  knew  that  each  member  of  the  Circle  was 
expected  to  pay  ten  cents  a  week  for  the  purpose 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  51 

of  procuring  sewing  materials;  and  the  poor  Old 
Lady  really  did  not  see  how  she  could  afford  it. 
But  a  sudden  thought  checked  her  refusal  before 
it  reached  her  lips. 

"  I  suppose  some  of  the  young  girls  go  to  the 
Circle?  "  she  said  craftily. 

"  Oh,  they  all  go,"  said  the  minister's  wife. 
"  Janet  Moore  and  Miss  Gray  are  our  most  en- 
thusiastic members.  It  is  very  lovely  of  Miss 
Gray  to  give  her  Saturday  afternoons  —  the  only 
ones  she  has  free  from  pupils  —  to  our  work.  But 
she  really  has  the  sweetest  disposition." 

"I'll  join  your  Circle,"  said  the  Old  Lady 
promptly.  She  was  determined  she  would  do  it, 
if  she  had  to  live  on  two  meals  a  day  to  save  the 
necessary  fee. 

She  went  to  the  Sewing  Circle  at  James  Martin's 
the  next  Saturday,  and  did  the  most  beautiful 
hand  sewing  for  them.  She  was  so  expert  at  it 
that  she  didn't  need  to  think  about  it  at  all,  which 
was  rather  fortunate,  for  all  her  thoughts  were 
taken  up  with  Sylvia,  who  sat  in  the  opposite 
corner  with  Janet  Moore,  her  graceful  hands  busy 
with  a  little  boy's  coarse  gingham  shirt.  Nobody 
thought  of  introducing  Sylvia  to  Old  Lady  Lloyd, 
and  the  Old  Lady  was  glad  of  it.  She  sewed  finely 
away,  and  listened  with  all  her  ears  to  the  girlish 
chatter  which  went  on  in  the  opposite  corner.  One 


52  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

thing  she  found  out  —  Sylvia's  birthday  was  the 
twentieth  of  August.  And  the  Old  Lady  was 
straightway  fired  with  a  consuming  wish  to  give 
Sylvia  a  birthday  present.  She  lay  awake  most 
of  the  night  wondering  if  she  could  do  it,  and  most 
sorrowfully  concluded  that  it  was  utterly  out  of 
the  question,  no  matter  how  she  might  pinch  and 
contrive.  Old  Lady  Lloyd  worried  quite  absurdly 
over  this,  and  it  haunted  her  like  a  spectre  until 
the  next  Sewing  Circle  day. 

It  met  at  Mrs.  Moore's,  and  Mrs.  Moore  was 
especially  gracious  to  Old  Lady  Lloyd,  and  in- 
sisted on  her  taking  the  wicker  rocker  in  the  par- 
lour. The  Old  Lady  would  rather  have  been  in 
the  sitting-room  with  the  young  girls,  but  she  sub- 
mitted for  courtesy's  sake  —  and  she  had  her  re- 
ward. Her  chair  was  just  behind  the  parlour  door, 
and  presently  Janet  Moore  and  Sylvia  Gray  came 
and  sat  on  the  stairs  in  the  hall  outside,  where  a 
cool  breeze  blew  in  through  the  maples  before  the 
front  door. 

They  were  talking  of  their  favourite  poets. 
Janet,  it  appeared,  adored  Byron  and  Scott. 
Sylvia  leaned  to  Tennyson  and  Browning. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Sylvia  softly,  "  my  father 
was  a  poet?  He  published  a  little  volume  of  verse 
once;  and,  Janet,  I've  never  seen  a  copy  of  it, 
and  oh,  how  I  would  love  to!  It  was  published 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  53 

when  he  was  at  college  —  just  a  small,  private 
edition  to  give  his  friends.  He  never  published 
any  more  —  poor  father!  I  think  life  disap- 
pointed him.  But  I  have  such  a  longing  to  see 
that  little  book  of  his  verse.  I  haven't  a  scrap  of 
his  writings.  If  I  had  it  would  seem  as  if  I  pos- 
sessed something  of  him  —  of  his  heart,  his  soul, 
his  inner  life.  He  would  be  something  more  than 
a  mere  name  to  me." 

"  Didn't  he  have  a  copy  of  his  own  —  didn't 
your  mother  have  one?  "  asked  Janet. 

"  Mother  hadn't.  She  died  when  I  was  born, 
you  know,  but  Aunty  says  there  was  no  copy  of 
father's  poems  among  mother's  books.  Mother 
didn't  care  for  poetry,  Aunty  says  —Aunty 
doesn't  either.  Father  went  to  Europe  after 
mother  died,  and  he  died  there  the  next  year. 
Nothing  that  he  had  with  him  was  ever  sent  home 
to  us.  He  had  sold  most  of  his  books  before  he 
went,  but  he  gave  a  few  of  his  favourite  ones  to 
Aunty  to  keep  for  me.  His  book  wasn't 
among  them.  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  find 
a  copy;  but  I  should  be  so  delighted  if  I  only 
could." 

When  the  Old  Lady  got  home  she  took  from  her 
top  bureau  drawer  an  inlaid  box  of  sandalwood. 
It  held  a  little,  slim,  limp  volume,  wrapped  in 
tissue  paper  —  the  Old  Lady's  most  treasured 


54  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

possession.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  written,  "  To 
Margaret,  with  the  author's  love." 

The  Old  Lady  turned  the  yellowed  leaves  with 
trembling  fingers  and,  through  eyes  brimming 
with  tears,  read  the  verses,  although  she  had 
known  them  all  by  heart  for  years.  She  meant  to 
give  the  book  to  Sylvia  for  a  birthday  present  — 
one  of  the  most  precious  gifts  ever  given,  if  the 
value  of  gifts  is  gauged  by  the  measure  of  self- 
sacrifice  involved.  In  that  little  book  was  im- 
mortal love  —  old  laughter  —  old  tears  —  old 
beauty  which  had  bloomed  like  a  rose  years  ago, 
holding  still  its  sweetness  like  old  rose  leaves. 

She  removed  the  telltale  fly-leaf;  and  late  on 
the  night  before  Sylvia's  birthday  the  Old  Lady 
crept,  under  cover  of  the  darkness,  through  by- 
ways and  across  fields,  as  if  bent  on  some  nefari- 
ous expedition,  to  the  little  Spencervale  store  where 
the  post-office  was  kept.  She  slipped  the  thin 
parcel  through  the  slit  in  the  door,  and  then  stole 
home  again,  feeling  a  strange  sense  of  loss  and 
loneliness.  It  was  as  if  she  had  given  away  the 
last  link  between  herself  and  her  youth.  But  she 
did  not  regret  it.  It  would  give  Sylvia  pleasuref 
and  that  had  come  to  be  the  overmastering  passion 
of  the  Old  Lady's  heart. 

The  next  night  the  light  in  Sylvia's  room  burned 
very  late  and  the  Old  Lady  watched  it  trium- 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  55 

phantly,  knowing  the  meaning  of  it.  Sylvia  was 
reading  her  father's  poems  and  the  Old  Lady  in 
her  darkness  read  them  too,  murmuring  the  lines 
over  and  over  to  herself.  After  all,  giving  away 
the  book  had  not  mattered  so  very  much.  She 
had  the  soul  of  it  still  —  and  the  fly-leaf  with  the 
name,  in  Leslie's  writing,  by  which  nobody  ever 
called  her  now. 

The  Old  Lady  was  sitting  on  the  Marshall  sofa 
Jthe  next  Sewing  Circle  afternoon  when  Sylvia 
Gray  came  and  sat  down  beside  her.  The  Old 
Lady's  hands  trembled  a  little  and  one  side  of  a 
handkerchief,  which  was  afterwards  given  as  a 
Christmas  present  to  a  little  olive-skinned  coolie 
in  Trinidad,  was  not  quite  so  exquisitely  done  as 
the  other  three  sides. 

Sylvia  at  first  talked  of  the  Circle,  and  Mrs. 
Marshall's  dahlias,  and  the  Old  Lady  was  in  the 
seventh  heaven  of  delight,  though  she  took  care 
not  to  show  it,  and  was  even  a  little  more  stately 
and  finely  mannered  than  usual.  When  she  asked 
Sylvia  how  she  liked  living  in  Spencervale,  Sylvia 
said, 

"  Very  much.  Everybody  is  so  kind  to  me. 
Besides  "  —  Sylvia  lowered  her  voice  so  that  no- 
body but  the  Old  Lady  could  hear  it  —  "I  have 
a  fairy  godmother  here  who  does  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  wonderful  things  for  me." 


56  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Sylvia,  being  a  girl  of  fine  instincts,  did  not  look 
at  Old  Lady  Lloyd  as  she  said  this.  But  she  would 
not  have  seen  anything  if  she  had  looked.  The 
Old  Lady  was  not  a  Lloyd  for  nothing. 

"  How  very  interesting,"  she  said,  indiffer- 
ently. 

"  Isn't  it?  I  am  so  grateful  to  her  and  I  have 
wished  so  much  she  might  know  how  much  pleas- 
ure she  has  given  me.  I  have  found  lovely  flow- 
ers and  delicious  berries  on  my  path  all  summer; 
I  feel  sure  she  sent  me  my  party  dress.  But  the 
dearest  gift  came  last  week  on  my  birthday  —  a 
little  volume  of  my  father's  poems.  I  can't  ex- 
press what  I  felt  on  receiving  them.  But  I  longed 
to  meet  my  fairy  godmother  and  thank  her." 

"  Quite  a  fascinating  mystery,  isn't  it?  Have 
you  really  no  idea  who  she  is?  " 

The  Old  Lady  asked  this  dangerous  question 
with  marked  success.  She  would  not  have  been 
so  successful  if  she  had  not  been  so  sure  that  Sylvia 
had  no  idea  of  the  old  romance  between  her  and 
Leslie  Gray.  As  it  was,  she  had  a  comfortable 
conviction  that  she  herself  was  the  very  last  per- 
son Sylvia  would  be  likely  to  suspect. 

Sylvia  hesitated  for  an  almost  unnoticeable  mo- 
ment. Then  she  said,  "  I  haven't  tried  to  find  out, 
because  I  don't  think  she  wants  me  to  know.  At 
first,  of  course,  in  the  matter  of  the  flowers  and 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  57 

dress,  I  did  try  to  solve  the  mystery;  but,  since 
I  received  the  book,  I  became  convinced  that  it 
was  my  fairy  godmother  who  was  doing  it  all,  and 
I  have  respected  her  wish  for  concealment  and 
always  shall.  Perhaps  some  day  she  will  reveal 
herself  to  me.  I  hope  so,  at  least." 

"  I  wouldn't  hope  it,"  said  the  Old  Lady  dis- 
couragingly.  "Fairy  godmothers  —  at  least,  in 
all  the  fairy  tales  I  ever  read  —  are  somewhat  apt 
to  be  queer,  crochety  people,  much  more  agree- 
able when  wrapped  up  in  mystery  than  when  met 
face  to  face." 

"  I'm  convinced  that  mine  is  the  very  opposite, 
and  that  the  better  I  became  acquainted  with  her 
the  more  charming  a  personage  I  should  find  her," 
said  Sylvia  gaily. 

Mrs.  Marshall  came  up  at  this  juncture  and 
entreated  Miss  Gray  to  sing  for  them.  Miss  Gray 
consenting  sweetly,  the  Old  Lady  was  left  alone 
and  was  rather  glad  of  it.  She  enjoyed  her  conver- 
sation with  Sylvia  much  more  in  thinking  it  over 
after  she  got  home  than  while  it  was  taking  place. 
When  an  Old  Lady  has  a  guilty  conscience  it  is 
apt  to  make  her  nervous  and  distract  her  thoughts 
from  immediate  pleasure.  She  wondered  a  little 
uneasily  if  Sylvia  really  did  suspect  her.  Then  she 
concluded  that  it  was  out  of  the  question.  Who 
would  suspect  a  mean,  unsociable  Old  Lady,  who 


58  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

had  no  friends,  and  who  gave  only  five  cents  to 
the  Sewing  Circle  when  everyone  else  gave  ten  or 
fifteen,  to  be  a  fairy  godmother,  the  donor  of 
beautiful  party  dresses,  and  the  recipient  of  gifts 
from  romantic,  aspiring  young  poets? 

V.    The  September  Chapter 

In  September  the  Old  Lady  looked  back  on  the 
summer  and  owned  to  herself  that  it  had  been  a 
strangely  happy  one,  with  Sundays  and  Sewing 
Circle  days  standing  out  like  golden  punctuation 
marks  in  a  poem  of  life.  She  felt  like  an  utterly 
different  woman;  and  other  people  thought  her 
different  also.  The  Sewing  Circle  women  found 
her  so  pleasant,  and  even  friendly,  that  they  began 
to  think  they  had  misjudged  her,  and  that  perhaps 
it  was  eccentricity  after  all,  and  not  meanness, 
which  accounted  for  her  peculiar  mode  of  living. 
Sylvia  Gray  always  came  and  talked  to  her  on 
Circle  afternoons  now,  and  the  Old  Lady  treasured 
every  word  she  said  in  her  heart  and  repeated 
them  over  and  over  to  her  lonely  self  in  the  watches 
of  the  night. 

Sylvia  never  talked  of  herself  or  her  plans,  unless 
asked  about  them;  and  the  Old  Lady's  self-con- 
sciousness prevented  her  from  asking  any  personal 
questions;  so  their  conversation  kept  to  the  sur- 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  59 

face  of  things,  and  it  was  not  from  Sylvia,  but  from 
the  minister's  wife  that  the  Old  Lady  finally  dis- 
covered what  her  darling's  dearest  ambition  was. 

The  minister's  wife  had  dropped  in  at  the  old 
Lloyd  place  one  evening  late  in  September,  when 
a  chilly  wind  was  blowing  up  from  the  northeast 
and  moaning  about  the  eaves  of  the  house,  as  if 
the  burden  of  its  lay  were  "  harvest  is  ended  and 
summer  is  gone."  The  Old  Lady  had  been  listen- 
ing to  it,  as  she  plaited  a  little  basket  of  sweet  grass 
for  Sylvia.  She  had  walked  all  the  way  to  Avon- 
lea  sand-hills  for  it  the  day  before,  and  she  was 
very  tired.  And  her  heart  was  sad.  This  sum- 
mer, which  had  so  enriched  her  life,  was  almost 
over;  and  she  knew  that  Sylvia  Gray  talked  of 
leaving  Spencervale  at  the  end  of  October.  The 
Old  Lady's  heart  felt  like  very  lead  within  her  at 
the  thought,  and  she  almost  welcomed  the  advent 
of  the  minister's  wife  as  a  distraction,  although  she 
was  desperately  afraid  that  the  minister's  wife 
had  called  to  ask  for  a  subscription  for  the  new 
vestry  carpet,  and  the  Old  Lady  simply  could  not 
afford  to  give  one  cent. 

But  the  minister's  wife  had  merely  dropped  in 
on  her  way  home  from  the  Spencers'  and  she  did 
not  make  any  embarrassing  requests.  Instead, 
she  talked  about  Sylvia  Gray,  and  her  words  fell 
on  the  Old  Lady's  ears  like  separate  pearl  notes  of 


60  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

unutterably  sweet  music.  The  minister's  wife  had 
nothing  but  praise  for  Sylvia  —  she  was  so  sweet 
and  beautiful  and  winning. 

"  And  with  such  a  voice,"  said  the  minister's 
wife  enthusiastically,  adding  with  a  sigh,  "  It's 
such  a  shame  she  can't  have  it  properly  trained. 
She  would  certainly  become  a  great  singer  —  com- 
petent critics  have  told  her  so.  But  she  is  so  poor 
she  doesn't  think  she  can  ever  possibly  manage 
it  —  unless  she  can  get  one  of  the  Cameron  schol- 
arships, as  they  are  called;  and  she  has  very  little 
hope  of  that,  although  the  professor  of  music  who 
taught  her  has  sent  her  name  in." 

"  What  are  the  Cameron  scholarships?  "  asked 
the  Old  Lady. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  have  heard  of  Andrew 
Cameron,  the  millionaire?  "  said  the  minister's 
wife,  serenely  unconscious  that  she  was  causing 
the  very  bones  of  the  Old  Lady's  family  skeleton 
to  jangle  in  their  closet. 

Into  the  Old  Lady's  white  face  came  a  sudden 
faint  stain  of  colour,  as  if  a  rough  hand  had  struck 
her  cheek. 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  of  him,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  he  had  a  daughter,  who 
was  a  very  beautiful  girl,  and  whom  he  idolized. 
She  had  a  fine  voice,  and  he  was  going  to  send  her 
abroad  to  have  it  trained,  And  she  died.  It 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  61 

nearly  broke  his  heart,  I  understand.  But  ever 
since  he  sends  one  young  girl  away  to  Europe 
every  year  for  a  thorough  musical  education  under 
the  best  teachers  —  in  memory  of  his  daughter. 
He  has  sent  nine  or  ten  already;  but  I  fear  there 
isn't  much  chance  for  Sylvia  Gray,  and  she  doesn't 
think  there  is  herself." 

"  Why  not?  "  asked  the  Old  Lady  spiritedly. 
"  I  am  sure  that  there  can  be  few  voices  equal  to 
Miss  Gray's." 

"  Very  true.  But  you  see  these  so-called  schol- 
arships are  private  affairs,  dependent  solely  on  the 
whim  and  choice  of  Andrew  Cameron  himself.  Of 
course,  when  a  girl  has  friends  who  use  their  in- 
fluence with  him  he  will  often  send  her  on  their 
recommendation.  They  say  he  sent  a  girl  last 
year  who  hadn't  much  of  a  voice  at  all  just  because 
her  father  had  been  an  old  business  crony  of  his. 
But  Sylvia  doesn't  know  anyone  at  all  who  would, 
to  use  a  slang  term,  have  any  '  pull '  with  Andrew 
Cameron,  and  she  is  not  acquainted  with  him  her- 
self. Well,  I  must  be  going;  we'll  see  you  at  the 
Manse  on  Saturday,  I  hope,  Miss  Lloyd.  The 
Circle  meets  there,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  Old  Lady  absently. 
When  the  minister's  wife  had  gone  she  dropped 
her  sweet-grass  basket  and  sat  for  a  long,  long  time 
with  her  hands  lying  idly  in  her  lap,  and  her  big 


62  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

black  eyes  staring  unseeingly  at  the  wall  before 
her. 

Old  Lady  Lloyd,  so  pitifully  poor  that  she  had 
to  eat  six  crackers  the  less  a  week  to  pay  her  fee 
to  the  Sewing  Circle,  knew  that  it  was  in  her 
power  —  hers  —  to  send  Leslie  Gray's  daughter 
to  Europe  for  her  musical  education !  If  she  chose 
to  use  her  "  pull "  with  Andrew  Cameron  —  if 
she  went  to  him  and  asked  him  to  send  Sylvia 
Gray  abroad  the  next  year  —  she  had  no  doubt 
whatever  that  it  would  be  done.  It  all  lay  with 
her  —  if  —  if  —  if  she  could  so  far  crush  and  con- 
quer her  pride  as  to  stoop  to  ask  a  favour  of  the 
man  who  had  wronged  her  and  hers  so  bitterly. 

Years  ago,  her  father,  acting  under  the  advice 
and  urgency  of  Andrew  Cameron,  had  invested 
all  his  little  fortune  in  an  enterprise  that  had 
turned  out  a  failure.  Abraham  Lloyd  lost  every 
dollar  he  possessed  and  his  family  were  reduced  to 
utter  poverty.  Andrew  Cameron  might  have  been 
forgiven  for  a  mistake ;  but  there  was  a  strong  sus- 
picion, amounting  to  almost  certainty,  that  he 
had  been  guilty  of  something  far  worse  than  a 
mistake  in  regard  to  his  uncle's  investment.  Noth- 
ing could  be  legally  proved;  but  it  was  certain 
that  Andrew  Cameron,  already  noted  for  his 
"  sharp  practices,"  emerged  with  improved  fi- 
nances from  an  entanglement  that  had  ruined 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  63 

many  better  men ;  and  old  Doctor  Lloyd  had  died 
broken-hearted,  believing  that  his  nephew  had 
deliberately  victimized  him. 

Andrew  Cameron  had  not  quite  done  this;  he 
had  meant  well  enough  by  his  uncle  at  first,  and 
what  he  had  finally  done  he  tried  to  justify  to 
himself  by  the  doctrine  that  a  man  must  look  out 
for  Number  One. 

Margaret  Lloyd  made  no  such  excuses  for  him; 
she  held  him  responsible,  not  only  for  her  lost 
fortune,  but  for  her  father's  death,  and  never  for- 
gave him  for  it.  When  Abraham  Lloyd  had  died, 
Andrew  Cameron,  perhaps  pricked  by  his  con- 
science, had  come  to  her,  sleekly  and  smoothly, 
to  offer  her  financial  aid.  He  would  see,  he  told 
her,  that  she  never  suffered  want. 

Margaret  Lloyd  flung  his  offer  back  in  his  face 
after  a  fashion  that  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in 
the  way  of  plain  speaking.  She  would  die,  she 
told  him  passionately,  before  she  would  accept  a 
penny  or  a  favour  from  him.  He  had  preserved 
an  unbroken  show  of  good  temper,  expressed  his 
heartfelt  regret  that  she  should  cherish  such  an 
unjust  opinion  of  him,  and  had  left  her  with  an  oily 
assurance  that  he  would  always  be  her  friend,  and 
would  always  be  delighted  to  render  her  any  as- 
sistance in  his  power  whenever  she  should  choose 
to  ask  for  it. 


64  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

The  Old  Lady  had  lived  for  twenty  years  in  the 
firm  conviction  that  she  would  die  in  the  poor- 
house  —  as,  indeed,  seemed  not  unlikely  —  before 
she  would  ask  a  favour  of  Andrew  Cameron.  And 
so,  in  truth,  she  would  have,  had  it  been  for  her- 
self. But  for  Sylvia!  Could  she  so  far  humble 
herself  for  Sylvia's  sake? 

The  question  was  not  easily  or  speedily  settled, 
as  had  been  the  case  in  the  matters  of  the  grape 
jug  and  the  book  of  poems.  For  a  whole  week 
the  Old  Lady  fought  her  pride  and  bitterness. 
Sometimes,  in  the  hours  of  sleepless  night,  when 
all  human  resentments  and  rancours  seemed  petty 
and  contemptible,  she  thought  she  had  conquered 
it.  But  in  the  daytime,  with  the  picture  of  her  father 
looking  down  at  her  from  the  wall,  and  the  rustle 
of  her  unfashionable  dresses,  worn  because  of  An- 
drew Cameron's  double  dealing,  in  her  ears,  it  got 
the  better  of  her  again. 

But  the  Old  Lady's  love  for  Sylvia  had  grown 
so  strong  and  deep  and  tender  that  no  other  feel- 
ing could  endure  finally  against  it.  Love  is  a  great 
miracle  worker;  and  never  had  its  power  been 
more  strongly  made  manifest  than  on  the  cold, 
dull,  autumn  morning  when  the  Old  Lady  walked 
to  Bright  River  railway  station  and  took  the  train 
to  Charlottetown,  bent  on  an  errand  the  very 
thought  of  which  turned  her  soul  sick  within  her. 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  65 

The  station  master  who  sold  her  her  ticket  thought 
Old  Lady  Lloyd  looked  uncommonly  white  and 
peaked  —  "  as  if  she  hadn't  slept  a  wink  or  eaten 
a  bite  for  a  week,"  he  told  his  wife  at  dinner  time. 
"  Guess  there's  something  wrong  in  her  business 
affairs.  This  is  the  second  time  she's  gone  to  town 
this  summer." 

When  the  Old  Lady  reached  the  town  she  ate 
her  slender  little  lunch  and  then  walked  out  to  the 
suburb  where  the  Cameron  factories  and  ware- 
houses were.  It  was  a  long  walk  for  her,  but  she 
could  not  afford  to  drive.  She  felt  very  tired  when 
she  was  shown  into  the  shining,  luxurious  office 
where  Andrew  Cameron  sat  at  his  desk. 

After  the  first  startled  glance  of  surprise,  he 
came  forward  beamingly,  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Why,  Cousin  Margaret!  This  is  a  pleasant 
surprise.  Sit  down  —  allow  me,  this  is  a  much 
more  comfortable  chair.  Did  you  come  in  this 
morning?  And  how  is  everybody  out  in  Spencer- 
vale?  " 

The  Old  Lady  had  flushed  at  his  first  words. 
To  hear  the  name  by  which  her  father  and  mother 
and  lover  had  called  her  on  Andrew  Cameron's 
lips  seemed  like  profanation.  But,  she  told  her- 
self, the  time  was  past  for  squeamishness.  If  she 
could  ask  a  favour  of  Andrew  Cameron  she  could 
bear  lesser  pangs.  For  Sylvia's  sake  she  shook 


66  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

hands  with  him,  for  Sylvia's  sake  she  sat  down  in 
the  chair  he  offered.  But  for  no  living  human 
being's  sake  could  this  determined  Old  Lady  infuse 
any  cordiality  into  her  manner  or  her  words.  She 
went  straight  to  the  point  with  Lloyd  simplicity. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  a  favour  of  you,"  she  said, 
looking  him  in  the  eye,  not  at  all  humbly  or 
meekly,  as  became  a  suppliant,  but  challengingly 
and  defiantly,  as  if  she  dared  him  to  refuse. 

"  De-lighted  to  hear  it,  Cousin  Margaret." 
Never  was  anything  so  bland  and  gracious  as  his 
tone.  "  Anything  I  can  do  for  you  I  shall  be  only 
too  pleased  to  do.  I  am  afraid  you  have  looked 
upon  me  as  an  enemy,  Margaret,  and  I  assure  you 
I  have  felt  your  injustice  keenly.  I  realize  that 
some  appearances  were  against  me,  but  —  " 

The  Old  Lady  lifted  her  hand  and  stemmed  his 
eloquence  by  that  one  gesture. 

"  I  did  not  come  here  to  discuss  that  matter," 
she  said.  "  We  will  not  refer  to  the  past,  if  you 
please.  I  came  to  ask  a  favour,  not  for  myself, 
but  for  a  very  dear  young  friend  of  mine  —  a  Miss 
Gray,  who  has  a  remarkably  fine  voice  which  she 
wishes  to  have  trained.  She  is  poor,  so  I  came  to 
ask  you  if  you  would  give  her  one  of  your  musical 
scholarships.  I  understand  her  name  has  already 
been  suggested  to  you,  with  a  recommendation 
from  her  teacher.  I  do  not  know  what  he  has 


OLD    LADY   LLOYD  67 

said  of  her  voice,  but  I  do  know  he  could  hardly 
overrate  it.  If  you  send  her  abroad  for  training 
you  will  not  make  any  mistake." 

The  Old  Lady  stopped  talking.  She  felt  sure 
Andrew  Cameron  would  grant  her  request;  but 
she  did  hope  he  would  grant  it  rather  rudely  or 
unwillingly.  She  could  accept  the  favour  so  much 
more  easily  if  it  were  flung  to  her  like  a  bone  to  a 
dog.  But  not  a  bit  of  it,  Andrew  Cameron  was 
suaver  than  ever.  Nothing  could  give  him  greater 
pleasure  than  to  grant  his  dear  Cousin  Margaret's 
request  —  he  only  wished  it  involved  more  trouble 
on  his  part.  Her  little  protege  should  have  her 
musical  education  assuredly  —  she  should  go 
abroad  next  year' — and  he  was  de-lighted — 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Old  Lady,  cutting  him 
short  again.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  —  and  I 
ask  you  not  to  let  Miss  Gray  know  anything  of 
my  interference.  And  I  shall  not  take  up  any  more 
of  your  valuable  time.  Good  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  go  so  soon,"  he  said,  with 
some  real  kindness  or  clannishness  permeating  the 
hateful  cordiality  of  his  voice  —  for  Andrew  Cam- 
eron was  not  entirely  without  the  homely  virtues 
of  the  average  man.  He  had  been  a  good  hus- 
band and  father;  he  had  once  been  very  fond  of 
his  Cousin  Margaret ;  and  he  was  really  very  sorry 
that  "  circumstances  "  had  "  compelled  "  him  to 


68  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

act  as  he  had  done  in  that  old  affair  of  her 
father's  investment.  "  You  must  be  my  guest 
to-night." 

"  Thank  you.  I  must  return  home  to-night," 
said  the  Old  Lady  firmly,  and  there  was  that  in 
her  tone  which  told  Andrew  Cameron  that  it 
would  be  useless  to  urge  her.  But  he  insisted  on 
telephoning  for  his  carriage  to  drive  her  to  the 
station.  The  Old  Lady  submitted  to  this,  because 
she  was  secretly  afraid  her  own  legs  would  not 
suffice  to  carry  her  there;  she  even  shook  hands 
with  him  at  parting,  and  thanked  him  a  second 
time  for  granting  her  request. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "  Please  try  to  think  a 
little  more  kindly  of  me,  Cousin  Margaret." 

When  the  Old  Lady  reached  the  station  she 
found,  to  her  dismay,  that  her  train  had  just  gone 
and  that  she  would  have  to  wait  two  hours  for  the 
evening  one.  She  went  into  the  waiting-room  and 
sat  down.  She  was  very  tired.  All  the  excitement 
that  had  sustained  her  was  gone  and  she  felt  weak 
and  old.  She  had  nothing  to  eat,  having  expected 
to  get  home  in  time  for  tea;  the  waiting-room  was 
chilly,  and  she  shivered  in  her  thin,  old,  silk  man- 
tilla. Her  head  ached  and  her  heart  likewise. 
She  had  won  Sylvia's  desire  for  her;  but  Sylvia 
would  go  out  of  her  life,  and  the  Old  Lady  did  not 
see  how  she  was  to  go  on  living  after  that.  Yet 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  69 

she  sat  there  unflinchingly  for  two  hours,  an  up- 
right, indomitable  old  figure,  silently  fighting  her 
losing  battle  with  the  forces  of  physical  and  mental 
pain,  while  happy  people  came  and  went,  and 
laughed  and  talked  before  her. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  Old  Lady  got  off  the  train 
at  Bright  River  station,  and  slipped  off  unnoticed 
into  the  darkness  of  the  wet  night.  She  had  two 
miles  to  walk  and  a  cold  rain  was  falling.  Soon 
the  Old  Lady  was  wet  to  the  skin  and  chilled  to 
the  marrow.  She  felt  as  if  she  were  walking  in  a 
bad  dream.  Blind  instinct  alone  guided  her  over 
the  last  mile  and  up  the  lane  to  her  own  house. 
As  she  fumbled  at  her  door  she  realized  that  a 
burning  heat  had  suddenly  taken  the  place  of  her 
chilliness.  She  stumbled  in  over  her  threshold 
and  closed  the  door. 


VI.    The  October  Chapter 

On  the  second  morning  after  Old  Lady  Lloyd's 
journey  to  town  Sylvia  Gray  was  walking  blithely 
down  the  wood  lane.  It  was  a  beautiful  autumn 
morning,  clear  and  crisp  and  sunny;  the  frosted 
ferns,  drenched  and  battered  with  the  rain  of 
yesterday,  gave  out  a  delicious  fragrance;  here 
and  there  in  the  woods  a  maple  waved  a  gay  crim- 
son banner,  or  a  branch  of  birch  showed  pale  golden 


70  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

against  the  dark,  unchanging  spruces.  The  air 
was  very  pure  and  exhilarating.  Sylvia  walked 
with  a  joyous  lightness  of  step  and  uplift  of 
brow. 

At  the  beech  in  the  hollow  she  paused  for  an 
expectant  moment,  but  there  was  nothing  among 
the  gray  old  roots  for  her.  She  was  just  turning 
away  when  little  Teddy  Kimball,  who  lived  next 
door  to  the  manse,  came  running  down  the  slope 
from  the  direction  of  the  old  Lloyd  place.  Teddy's 
freckled  face  was  very  pale. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Gray!  "  he  gasped.  "  I  guess  Old 
Lady  Lloyd  has  gone  clean  crazy  at  last.  The 
minister's  wife  asked  me  to  run  up  to  the  Old 
Lady,  with  a  message  about  the  Sewing  Circle 
—  and  I  knocked  —  and  knocked  —  and  nobody 
came  —  so  I  thought  I'd  just  step  in  and  leave  the 
letter  on  the  table.  But  when  I  opened  the  door 
I  heard  an  awful  queer  laugh  in  the  sitting-room, 
and  next  minute  the  Old  Lady  came  to  the  sitting- 
room  door.  Oh,  Miss  Gray,  she  looked  awful. 
Her  face  was  red  and  her  eyes  awful  wild  —  and 
she  was  muttering  and  talking  to  herself  and  laugh- 
ing like  mad.  I  was  so  scared  I  just  turned  and 
run." 

Sylvia,  without  stopping  for  reflection,  caught 
Teddy's  hand  and  ran  up  the  slope.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  to  be  frightened,  although  she  thought 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  Vl 

with  Teddy,  that  the  poor,  lonely,  eccentric  Old 
Lady  had  really  gone  out  of  her  mind  at  last. 

The  Old  Lady  was  sitting  on  the  kitchen  sofa 
when  Sylvia  entered.  Teddy,  too  frightened  to 
go  in,  lurked  on  the  step  outside.  The  Old  Lady 
still  wore  the  damp  black  silk  dress  in  which  she 
had  walked  from  the  station.  Her  face  was 
flushed,  her  eyes  wild,  her  voice  hoarse.  But  she 
knew  Sylvia  and  cowered  down. 

"  Don't  look  at  me,"  she  moaned.  "  Please  go 
away  —  I  can't  bear  that  you  should  know  how 
poor  I  am.  You're  to  go  to  Europe  —  Andrew 
Cameron  is  going  to  send  you  —  I  asked  him  — 
he  couldn't  refuse  me.  But  please  go  away." 

Sylvia  did  not  go  away.  At  a  glance  she 
had  seen  that  this  was  sickness  and  delirium,  not 
insanity.  She  sent  Teddy  off  in  hot  haste  for  Mrs. 
Spencer,  and  when  Mrs.  Spencer  came  they  in- 
duced the  Old  Lady  to  go  to  bed,  and  sent  for 
the  doctor.  By  night  everybody  in  Spencervale 
knew  that  Old  Lady  Lloyd  had  pneumonia. 

Mrs.  Spencer  announced  that  she  meant  to 
stay  and  nurse  the  Old  Lady.  Several  other 
women  offered  assistance.  Everybody  was  kind 
and  thoughtful.  But  the  Old  Lady  did  not  know 
it.  She  was  in  a  high  fever  and  delirium.  She 
did  not  even  know  Sylvia  Gray,  who  came  and 
sat  by  her  every  minute  she  could  spare.  Sylvia 


72  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Gray  now  knew  all  that  she  had  suspected  —  the 
Old  Lady  was  her  fairy  godmother.  The  Old  Lady 
babbled  of  Sylvia  incessantly,  revealing  all  her 
love  for  her,  betraying  all  the  sacrifices  she  had 
made.  Sylvia's  heart  ached  with  love  and  ten- 
derness, and  she  prayed  earnestly  that  the  Old 
Lady  might  recover. 

"  I  want  her  to  know  that  I  give  her  love  for 
love,"  she  murmured. 

Everybody  knew  now  how  poor  the  Old 
Lady  really  was.  She  let  slip  all  the  jealously 
guarded  secrets  of  her  existence,  except  her  old 
love  for  Leslie  Gray.  Even  in  delirium  some- 
thing sealed  her  lips  as  to  that.  But  all  else  came 
out  —  her  anguish  over  her  unfashionable  attire, 
her  pitiful  makeshifts  and  contrivances,  her  hu- 
miliation over  wearing  unfashionable  dresses  and 
paying  only  five  cents  where  every  other  Sewing 
Circle  member  paid  ten.  The  kindly  women  who 
waited  on  her  listened  to  her  with  tear-filled  eyes, 
and  repented  of  their  harsh  judgments  in  the  past. 

"  But  who  would  have  thought  it?  "  said  Mrs. 
Spencer  to  the  minister's  wife.  "  Nobody  ever 
dreamed  that  her  father  had  lost  all  his  money, 
though  folks  supposed  he  had  lost  some  in  that 
old  affair  of  the  silver  mine  out  west.  It's  shock- 
ing to  think  of  the  way  she  has  lived  all  these 
years,  often  with  not  enough  to  eat  —  and  going 


OLD    LADY    LLOYD  73 

to  bed  in  winter  days  to  save  fuel.  Though  I  sup- 
pose if  we  had  known  we  couldn't  have  done  much 
for  her,  she's  so  desperate  proud.  But  if  she  lives, 
and  will  let  us  help  her,  things  will  be  different 
after  this.  Crooked  Jack  says  he'll  never  forgive 
himself  for  taking  pay  for  the  few  little  jobs  he 
did  for  her.  He  says,  if  she'll  only  let  him, 
he'll  do  everything  she  wants  done  for  her  after 
this  for  nothing.  Ain't  it  strange  what  a  fancy 
she's  took  to  Miss  Gray?  Think  of  her  doing  all 
those  things  for  her  all  summer,  and  selling  the 
grape  jug  and  all.  Well,  the  Old  Lady  certainly 
isn't  mean,  but  nobody  made  a  mistake  in  calling 
her  queer.  It  all  does  seem  desperate  pitiful. 
Miss  Gray's  taking  it  awful  hard.  She  seems  to 
think  about  as  much  of  the  Old  Lady  as  the  Old 
Lady  thinks  of  her.  She's  so  worked  up  she  don't 
even  seem  to  care  about  going  to  Europe  next 
year.  She's  really  going  —  she's  had  word  from 
Andrew  Cameron.  I'm  awful  glad,  for  there  never 
was  a  sweeter  girl  in  the  world;  but  she  says  it 
will  cost  too  much  if  the  Old  Lady's  life  is  to  pay 
for  it." 

Andrew  Cameron  heard  of  the  Old  Lady's  illness 
and  came  out  tc  Spencervale  himself.  He  was 
not  allowed  to  see  the  Old  Lady,  of  course;  but 
he  told  all  concerned  that  no  expense  or  trouble 
was  to  be  spared,  and  the  Spencervale  doctor  was 


74  CHRONICLES    OF   AVONLEA 

instructed  to  send  his  bill  to  Andrew  Cameron 
and  hold  his  peace  about  it.  Moreover,  when 
Andrew  Cameron  went  back  home  he  sent  a 
trained  nurse  out  to  wait  on  the  Old  Lady,  a 
capable,  kindly  woman  who  contrived  to  take 
charge  of  the  case  without  offending  Mrs.  Spencer 
—  than  which  no  higher  tribute  could  be  paid  to 
her  tact! 

The  Old  Lady  did  not  die  —  the  Lloyd  constitu- 
tion brought  her  through.  One  day,  when  Sylvia 
came  in,  the  Old  Lady  smiled  up  at  her,  with  a 
weak,  faint,  sensible  smile,  and  murmured  her 
name,  and  the  nurse  said  that  the  crisis  was  past. 

The  Old  Lady  made  a  marvellously  patient  and 
tractable  invalid.  She  did  just  as  she  was  told 
and  accepted  the  presence  of  the  nurse  as  a  matter 
of  course. 

But  one  day,  when  she  was  strong  enough  to 
talk  a  little,  she  said  to  Sylvia, 

"  I  suppose  Andrew  Cameron  sent  Miss  Hayes 
here,  did  he?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sylvia  rather  timidly. 

The  old  lady  noticed  the  timidity  and  smiled, 
with  something  of  her  old  humour  and  spirit  in 
her  black  eyes. 

"  Time  has  been  when  I'd  have  packed  off  un- 
ceremoniously any  person  Andrew  Cameron  sent 
here,"  she  said.  "  But,  Sylvia,  I  have  gone  through 


OLD   LADY   LLOYD  75 

the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  and  I  have 
left  pride  and  resentment  behind  me  for  ever,  I 
hope.  I  no  longer  feel  as  I  felt  towards  Andrew. 
I  can  even  accept  a  personal  favour  from  him 
now.  At  last  I  can  forgive  him  for  the  wrong  he 
did  me  and  mine.  Sylvia,  I  find  that  I  have  been 
letting  no  ends  of  cats  out  of  bags  in  my  illness. 
Everybody  knows  now  how  poor  I  am  —  but  I 
don't  seem  to  mind  it  a  bit.  I'm  only  sorry  that 
I  ever  shut  my  neighbours  out  of  my  life  because 
of  my  foolish  pride.  Everyone  has  been  so  kind 
to  me,  Sylvia.  In  the  future,  if  my  life  is  spared, 
it  is  going  to  be  a  very  different  sort  of  life.  I'm 
going  to  open  it  to  all  the  kindness  and  compan- 
ionship I  can  find  in  young  and  old.  I'm  going 
to  help  them  all  I  can  and  let  them  help  me.  I 
can  help  people  —  I've  learned  that  money  isn't 
the  only  power  for  helping  people.  [^Anyone  who 
has  sympathy  and  understanding  to  give  has  a 
treasure  that  is  without  money  and  without  price.J 
And  oh,  Sylvia,  you've  found  out  what  I  never 
meant  you  to  know.  But  I  don't  mind  that  now, 
either." 

Sylvia  took  the  Old  Lady's  thin  white  hand  and 
kissed  it. 

"  I  can  never  thank  you  enough  for  what  you 
have  done  for  me,  dearest  Miss  Lloyd,"  she  said 
earnestly.  "  And  I  am  so  glad  that  all  mystery 


76  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

is  done  away  with  between  us,  and  I  can  love 
you  as  much  and  as  openly  as  I  have  longed  to  do. 
I  am  so  glad  and  so  thankful  that  you  love  me, 
dear  fairy  godmother." 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  love  you  so?  "  said  the 
Old  Lady  wistfully.  "  Did  I  let  that  out  in  my 
raving,  too?  " 

"  No.  But  I  think  I  know.  It  is  because  I  am 
Leslie  Gray's  daughter,  isn't  it?  I  know  that 
father  loved  you  —  his  brother,  Uncle  Willis,  told 
me  all  about  it." 

"  I  spoiled  my  own  life  because  of  my  wicked 
pride,"  said  the  Old  Lady  sadly.  "But  you  will 
love  me  in  spite  of  it  all,  won't  you,  Sylvia?  And 
you  will  come  to  see  me  sometimes?  And  write 
me  after  you  go  away?  " 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  every  day,"  said 
Sylvia.  "  I  am  going  to  stay  in  Spencervale  for  a 
whole  year  yet,  just  to  be  near  you.  And  next 
year  when  I  go  to  Europe  —  thanks  to  you,  fairy 
godmother  —  I'll  write  you  every  day.  We  are 
going  to  be  the  best  of  chums,  and  we  are  going 
to  have  a  most  beautiful  year  of  comradeship!  " 

The  Old  Lady  smiled  contentedly.  Out  in  the 
kitchen  the  minister's  wife,  who  had  brought  up 
a  dish  of  jelly,  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Spencer  about 
the  Sewing  Circle.  Through  the  open  window, 
where  the  red  vines  hung,  came  the  pungent,  sun- 


OLD   LADY   LLOYD  77 

warm  October  air.    The  sunshine  fell  over  Sylvia's 
chestnut  hair  like  a  crown  of  glory  and  youth. 

"  I  do  feel  so  perfectly  happy,"  said  the  Old 
Lady,  with  a  long,  rapturous  breath. 


Ill 


EACH   IN  HIS   OWN   TONGUE 

THE  honey-tinted  autumn  sunshine  was  falling 
thickly  over  the  crimson  and  amber  maples  around 
old  Abel  Blair's  door.  There  was  only  one  outer 
door  in  old  Abel's  house,  and  it  almost  always 
stood  wide  open.  A  little  black  dog,  with  one  ear 
missing  and  a  lame  forepaw,  almost  always  slept 
on  the  worn  red  sandstone  slab  which  served  old 
Abel  for  a  doorstep;  and  on  the  still  more  worn 
sill  above  it  a  large  gray  cat  almost  always  slept. 
Just  inside  the  door,  on  a  bandy-legged  chair  of 
elder  days,  old  Abel  almost  always  sat. 

He  was  sitting  there  this  afternoon  —  a  little 
old  man,  sadly  twisted  with  rheumatism;  his 
head  was  abnormally  large,  thatched  with  long, 
wiry  black  hair;  his  face  was  heavily  lined  and 
swarthily  sunburned;  his  eyes  were  deep-set  and 
black,  with  occasional  peculiar  golden  flashes  in 
them.  A  strange  looking  man  was  old  Abel  Blair ; 
and  as  strange  was  he  as  he  looked,  Lower  Car- 
mody  people  would  have  told  you. 
78 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE         79 

Old  Abel  was  almost  always  sober  in  these,  his 
later  years.  He  was  sober  to-day.  He  liked  to 
bask  in  that  ripe  sunlight  as  well  as  his  dog  and 
cat  did;  and  in  such  baskings  he  almost  always 
looked  out  of  his  doorway  at  the  far,  fine  blue 
sky  over  the  tops  of  the  crowding  maples.  But 
to-day  he  was  not  looking  at  the  sky;  instead, 
he  was  staring  at  the  black,  dusty  rafters  of  his 
kitchen,  where  hung  dried  meats  and  strings  of 
onions  and  bunches  of  herbs  and  fishing  tackle 
and  guns  and  skins. 

But  old  Abel  saw  not  these  things ;  his  face  was 
the  face  of  a  man  who  beholds  visions,  compact 
of  heavenly  pleasure  and  hellish  pain,  for  old  Abel 
was  seeing  what  he  might  have  been  —  and  what 
he  was;  as  he  always  saw  when  Felix  Moore 
played  to  him  on  the  violin.  And  the  awful  joy 
of  dreaming  that  he  was  young  again,  with  un- 
spoiled life  before  him,  was  so  great  and  com- 
pelling that  it  counterbalanced  the  agony  in  the 
realization  of  a  dishonoured  old  age,  following 
years  in  which  he  had  squandered  the  wealth  of 
his  soul  in  ways  where  Wisdom  lifted  not  her  voice. 

Felix  Moore  was  standing  opposite  to  him,  be- 
fore an  untidy  stove,  where  the  noon  fire  had  died 
down  into  pallid,  scattered  ashes.  Under  his 
chin  he  held  old  Abel's  brown,  battered  fiddle; 
his  eyes,  too,  were  fixed  on  the  ceiling;  and  he, 


80  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

too,  saw  things  not  lawful  to  be  uttered  in  any 
language  save  that  of  music;  and  of  all  music, 
only  that  given  forth  by  the  anguished,  enrap- 
tured spirit  of  the  violin.  And  yet  this  Felix  was 
little  more  than  twelve  years  old,  and  his  face 
was  still  the  face  of  a  child  who  knows  nothing  of 
either  sorrow  or  sin  or  failure  or  remorse.  Only 
in  his  large,  gray-black  eyes  was  there  something 
not  of  the  child  —  something  that  spoke  of  an 
inheritance  from  many  hearts,  now  ashes,  which 
had  aforetime  grieved  and  joyed,  and  struggled 
and  failed,  and  succeeded  and  grovelled.  The 
inarticulate  cries  of  their  longings  had  passed  into 
this  child's  soul,  and  transmuted  themselves  into 
the  expression  of  his  music. 

Felix  was  a  beautiful  child.  Carmody  people, 
who  stayed  at  home,  thought  so;  and  old  Abel 
Blair,  who  had  roamed  afar  in  many  lands,  thought 
so;  and  even  the  Rev.  Stephen  Leonard,  who 
taught,  and  tried  to  believe,  that  favour  is  deceitful 
and  beauty  is  vain,  thought  so. 

He  was  a  slight  lad,  with  sloping  shoulders,  a 
slim  brown  neck,  and  a  head  set  on  it  with  stag- 
like  grace  and  uplift.  His  hair,  cut  straight  across 
his  brow  and  falling  over  his  ears,  after  some  ca- 
price of  Janet  Andrews,  the  minister's  house- 
keeper, was  a  glossy  blue-black.  The  skin  of  his 
face  and  hands  was  like  ivory;  his  eyes  were  large 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          81 

and  beautifully  tinted  —  gray,  with  dilating  pu- 
pils; his  features  had  the  outlines  of  a  cameo. 
Carmody  mothers  considered  him  delicate,  and 
had  long  foretold  that  the  minister  would  never 
bring  him  up;  but  old  Abel  pulled  his  grizzled 
moustache  when  he  heard  such  forebodings  and 
smiled. 

"  Felix  Moore  will  live,"  he  said  positively. 
"  You  can't  kill  that  kind  until  their  work  is  done. 
He's  got  a  work  to  do  —  if  the  minister'!!  let  him 
do  it.  And  if  the  minister  don't  let  him  do  it, 
then  I  wouldn't  be  in  that  minister's  shoes  when 
he  comes  to  the  judgment  —  no,  I'd  rather  be  in 
my  own.  It's  an  awful  thing  to  cross  the  purposes 
of  the  Almighty,  either  in  your  own  life  or  any- 
body else's.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  what's  meant 
by  the  unpardonable  sin  —  ay,  that  I  do!  " 

Carmody  people  never  asked  what  old  Abel 
meant.  They  had  long  ago  given  up  such  vain 
questioning.  When  a  man  had  lived  as  old  Abel 
had  lived  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  was  it 
any  wonder  he  said  crazy  things?  And  as  for 
hinting  that  Mr.  Leonard,  a  man  who  was  really 
almost  too  good  to  live,  was  guilty  of  any  sin, 
much  less  an  unpardonable  one  —  well,  there 
now!  what  use  was  it  to  be  taking  any  account 
of  old  Abel's  queer  speeches?  Though,  to  be  sure, 
there  was  no  great  harm  in  a  fiddle,  and  maybe 


82  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Mr.  Leonard  was  a  mite  too  strict  that  way  with 
the  child.  But  then,  could  you  wonder  at  it? 
There  was  his  father,  you  see. 

Felix  finally  lowered  the  violin,  and  came  back 
to  old  Abel's  kitchen  with  a  long  sigh.  Old  Abel 
smiled  drearily  at  him  —  the  smile  of  a  man  who 
has  been  in  the  hands  of  the  tormentors. 

"  It's  awful  the  way  you  play  —  it's  awful,"  he 
said  with  a  shudder.  "  I  never  heard  anything 
like  it  —  and  you  that  never  had  any  teaching 
since  you  were  nine  years  old,  and  not  much  prac- 
tice, except  what  you  could  get  here  now  and  then 
on  my  old,  battered  fiddle.  And  to  think  you 
make  it  up  yourself  as  you  go  along!  I  suppose 
your  grandfather  would  never  hear  to  your  study- 
ing music  —  would  he  now?  " 

Felix  shook  his  head. 

"  I  know  he  wouldn't,  Abel.  He  wants  me  to  be 
a  minister.  Ministers  are  good  things  to  be,  but 
I'm  afraid  I  can't  be  a  minister." 

"  Not  a  pulpit  minister.  There's  different  kinds 
of  ministers,  and  each  must  talk  to  men  in  his  own 
tongue  if  he's  going  to  do  'em  any  real  good," 
said  old  -Abel  meditatively.  "  Your  tongue  is 
music.  Strange  that  your  grandfather  can't  see 
that  for  himself,  and  him  such  a  broad-minded 
man!  He's  the  only  minister  I  ever  had  much 
use  for.  He's  God's  own  if  ever  a  man  was.  And 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE         83 

he  loves  you  —  yes,  sir,  he  loves  you  like  the  apple 
of  his  eye." 

"  And  I  love  him,"  said  Felix  warmly.  "  I  love 
him  so  much  that  I'll  even  try  to  be  a  minister  for 
his  sake,  though  I  don't  want  to  be." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  be?  " 

"  A  great  violinist,"  answered  the  child,  his 
ivory-hued  face  suddenly  warming  into  living  rose. 
"  I  want  to  play  to  thousands  —  and  see  their  eyes 
look  as  yours  do  when  I  play.  Sometimes  your 
eyes  frighten  me,  but  oh,  it's  a  splendid  fright! 
If  I  had  father's  violin  I  could  do  better.  I  re- 
member that  he  once  said  it  had  a  soul  that  was 
doing  purgatory  for  its  sins  when  it  had  lived  on 
earth.  I  don't  know  what  he  meant,  but  it  did 
seem  to  me  that  his  violin  was  alive.  He  taught 
me  to  play  on  it  as  soon  as  I  was  big  enough  to 
hold  it." 

"  Did  you  love  your  father?  "  asked  old  Abel, 
with  a  keen  look. 

Again  Felix  crimsoned ;  but  he  looked  straightly 
and  steadily  into  his  old  friend's  face. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  didn't;  but,"  he  added, 
gravely  and  deliberately,  "  I  don't  think  you 
should  have  asked  me  such  a  question." 

It  was  old  Abel's  turn  to  blush.  Carmody  people 
would  not  have  believed  he  could  blush;  and  per- 
haps no  living  being  could  have  called  that  deep- 


84  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

ening  hue  into  his  weather-beaten  cheek  save  only 
this  gray-eyed  child  of  the  rebuking  face. 

"  No,  I  guess  I  shouldn't,"  he  said.  "  But  I'm 
always  making  mistakes.  I've  never  made  any- 
thing else.  That's  why  I'm  nothing  more  than 
'  Old  Abel '  to  the  Carmody  people.  Nobody  but 
you  and  your  grandfather  ever  calls  me  '  Mr. 
Blair.'  Yet  William  Blair  at  the  store  up  there, 
rich  and  respected  as  he  is,  wasn't  half  as  clever 
a  man  as  I  was  when  we  started  in  life:  you 
mayn't  believe  that,  but  it's  true.  And  the  worst 
of  it  is,  young  Felix,  that  most  of  the  time  I  don't 
care  whether  I'm  Mr.  Blair  or  old  Abel.  Only 
when  you  play  I  care.  It  makes  me  feel  just  as  a 
look  I  saw  in  a  little  girl's  eyes  some  years  ago 
made  me  feel.  Her  name  was  Anne  Shirley  and  she 
lived  with  the  Cuthberts  down  at  Avonlea.  We 
got  into  a  conversation  at  Blair's  store.  She  could 
talk  a  blue  streak  to  anyone,  that  girl  could.  I 
happened  to  say  about  something  that  it  didn't 
matter  to  a  battered  old  hulk  of  sixty  odd  like  me. 
She  looked  at  me  with  her  big,  innocent  eyes,  a 
little  reproachful  like,  as  if  I'd  said  something 
awful  heretical.  'Don't 'you  think,  Mr.  Blair,' 
she  says,  '  that  the  older  we  get  the  more  things 
ought  to  matter  to  us?  '  —  as  grave  as  if  she'd 
been  a  hundred  instead  of  eleven.  '  Things  matter 
so  much  to  me  now,'  she  says,  clasping  her  hands 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          85 

thisaway,  '  and  I'm  sure  that  when  I'm  sixty 
they'll  matter  just  five  times  as  much  to  me.' 
Well,  the  way  she  looked  and  the  way  she  spoke 
made  me  feel  downright  ashamed  of  myself  be- 
cause things  had  stopped  mattering  with  me.  But 
never  mind  all  that.  My  miserable  old  feelings 
don't  count  for  much.  What  come  of  your  father's 
fiddle?  " 

"  Grandfather  took  it  away  when  I  came  here. 
I  think  he  burned  it.  And  I  long  for  it  so  often." 

"  Well,  you've  always  got  my  old  brown  fiddle 
to  come  to  when  you  must." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  And  I'm  glad  for  that.  But  I'm 
hungry  for  a  violin  all  the  time.  And  I  only  come 
here  when  the  hunger  gets  too  much  to  bear.  I 
feel  as  if  I  oughtn't  to  come  even  then  —  I'm  al- 
ways saying  I  won't  do  it  again,  because  I  know 
grandfather  wouldn't  like  it,  if  he  knew." 

"  He  has  never  forbidden  it,  has  he?  " 

"  No,  but  that  is  because  he  doesn't  know  I 
come  here  for  that.  He  never  thinks  of  such  a 
thing.  I  feel  sure  he  would  forbid  it,  if  he  knew. 
And  that  makes  me  very  wretched.  And  yet  I 
have  to  come.  Mr.  Blair,  do  you  know  why  grand- 
father can't  bear  to  have  me  play  on  the  violin? 
He  loves  music,  and  he  doesn't  mind  my  playing 
on  the  organ,  if  I  don't  neglect  other  things.  I 
can't  understand  it,  can  you?  " 


86  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  I  have  a  pretty  good  idea,  but  I  can't  tell 
you.  It  isn't  my  secret.  Maybe  he'll  tell  you 
himself  some  day.  But,  mark  you,  young  Felix, 
he  has  got  good  reasons  for  it  all.  Knowing  what 
I  know,  I  can't  blame  him  over  much,  though  I 
think  he's  mistaken.  Come  now,  play  something 
more  for  me  before  you  go  —  something  that's 
bright  and  happy  this  time,  so  as  to  leave  me  with 
a  good  taste  in  my  mouth.  That  last  thing  you 
played  took  me  straight  to  heaven,  —  but  heaven's 
awful  near  to  hell,  and  at  the  last  you  tipped  me 
in." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Felix,  drawing 
his  fine,  narrow  black  brows  together  in  a  per- 
plexed frown. 

"No  —  and  I  wouldn't  want  you  to.  You 
couldn't  understand  unless  you  was  an  old  man 
who  had  it  in  him  once  to  do  something  and  be  a 
man,  and  just  went  and  made  himself  a  devilish 
fool.  But  there  must  be  something  in  you  that 
understands  things  —  all  kinds  of  things  —  or 
you  couldn't  put  it  all  into  music  the  way  you  do. 
How  do  you  do  it?  How  in  —  how  do  you  do  it, 
young  Felix?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  play  differently  to  dif- 
ferent people.  I  don't  know  how  that  is.  When 
I'm  alone  with  you  I  have  to  play  oneway;  and 
when  Janet  comes  over  here  to  listen  I  feel  quite 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          87 

another  way  —  not  so  thrilling,  but  happier  and 
lonelier.  And  that  day  when  Jessie  Blair  was 
here  listening  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  laugh  and 
sing  —  as  if  the  violin  wanted  to  laugh  and  sing 
all  the  time." 

The  strange,  golden  gleam  flashed  through  old 
Abel's  sunken  eyes. 

41  God,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath,  "  I  be- 
lieve the  boy  can  get  into  other  folk's  souls  some- 
how, and  play  out  what  his  soul  sees  there." 

"  What's  that  you  say?  "  inquired  Felix,  pet- 
ting his  fiddle. 

"Nothing  —  never  mind  —  go  on.  Something 
lively  now,  young  Felix.  Stop  probing  into  my 
soul,  where  you  haven't  no  business  to  be,  you 
infant,  and  play  me  something  out  of  your  own 
—  something  sweet  and  happy  and  pure." 

"  I'll  play  the  way  I  feel  on  sunshiny  mornings, 
when  the  birds  are  singing  and  I  forget  I  have  to 
be  a  minister,"  said  Felix  simply. 

A  witching,  gurgling,  mirthful  strain,  like 
mingled  bird  and  brook  song,  floated  out  on  the 
still  air,  along  the  path  where  the  red  and  golden 
maple  leaves  were  falling  very  softly,  one  by  one. 
The  Reverend  Stephen  Leonard  heard  it,  as  he 
came  along  the  way,  and  the  Reverend  Stephen 
Leonard  smiled.  Now,  when  Stephen  Leonard 


88  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

smiled,  children  ran  to  him,  and  grown  people 
felt  as  if  they  looked  from  Pisgah  over  to  some  fair 
land  of  promise  beyond  the  fret  and  worry  of  their 
care-dimmed  earthly  lives. 

Mr.  Leonard  loved  music,  as  he  loved  all  things 
beautiful,  whether  in  the  material  or  the  spiritual 
world,  though  he  did  not  realize  how  much  he 
loved  them  for  their  beauty  alone,  or  he  would 
have  been  shocked  and  remorseful.  He  himself 
was  beautiful.  His  figure  was  erect  and  youthful, 
despite  seventy  years.  His  face  was  as  mobile 
and  charming  as  a  woman's,  yet  with  all  a  man's 
tried  strength  and  firmness  in  it,  and  his  dark  blue 
eyes  flashed  with  the  brilliance  of  one  and  twenty ; 
even  his  silken  silvery  hair  could  not  make  an  old 
man  of  him.  He  was  worshipped  by  everyone 
who  knew  him,  and  he  was,  in  so  far  as  mortal 
man  may  be,  worthy  of  that  worship. 

"  Old  Abel  is  amusing  himself  with  his  violin 
again,"  he  thought.  "  What  a  delicious  thing  he 
is  playing!  He  has  quite  a  gift  for  the  violin. 
But  how  can  he  play  such  a  thing  as  that,  —  a 
battered  old  hulk  of  a  man  who  has,  at  one  time 
or  another,  wallowed  in  almost  every  sin  to  which 
human  nature  can  sink?  He  was  on  one  of  his 
sprees  three  days  ago  —  the  first  one  for  over  a 
year  —  lying  dead-drunk  in  the  market  square  in 
Charlottetown  among  the  dogs;  and  now  he  is 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          89 

playing  something  that  only  a  young  archangel 
on  the  hills  of  heaven  ought  to  be  able  to  play. 
Well,  it  will  make  my  task  all  the  easier.  Abel  is 
always  repentant  by  the  time  he  is  able  to  play 
on  his  fiddle." 

Mr.  Leonard  was  on  the  door-stone.  The  little 
black  dog  had  frisked  down  to  meet  him,  and  the 
gray  cat  rubbed  her  head  against  his  leg.  Old 
Abel  did  not  notice  him;  he  was  beating  time 
with  uplifted  hand  and  smiling  face  to  Felix's 
music,  and  his  eyes  were  young  again,  glowing  with 
laughter  and  sheer  happiness. 

"  Felix!  what  does  this  mean?  " 

The  violin  bow  clattered  from  Felix's  hand  upon 
the  floor;  he  swung  around  and  faced  his  grand- 
father. As  he  met  the  passion  of  grief  and  hurt 
in  the  old  man's  eyes  his  own  clouded  with  an 
agony  of  repentance. 

"  Grandfather —  I'm  sorry,"  he  cried  brokenly. 

"  Now,  now!  "  Old  Abel  had  risen  depreca- 
tingly.  "  It's  all  my  fault,  Mr.  Leonard.  Don't 
you  blame  the  boy.  I  coaxed  him  to  play  a  bit 
for  me.  I  didn't  feel  fit  to  touch  the  fiddle  yet 
myself  —  too  soon  after  Friday,  you  see.  So  I 
coaxed  him  on  —  wouldn't  give  him  no  peace  till 
he  played.  It's  all  my  fault." 

"  No,"  said  Felix,  throwing  back  his  head.  His 
face  was  as  white  as  marble,  yet  it  seemed  ablaze 


90  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

with  desperate  truth  and  scorn  of  old  Abel's 
shielding  lie.  "  No,  grandfather,  it  isn't  Abel's 
fault.  I  came  over  here  on  purpose  to  play,  be- 
cause I  thought  you  had  gone  to  the  harbour.  I 
have  come  here  often,  ever  since  I  have  lived  with 
you." 

"  Ever  since  you  have  lived  with  me  you  have 
been  deceiving  me  like  this,  Felix?  " 

There  was  no  anger  in  Mr.  Leonard's  tone  — 
only  measureless  sorrow.  The  boy's  sensitive  lips 
quivered. 

"  Forgive  me,  grandfather,"  he  whispered  be- 
seechingly. 

"  You  never  forbid  him  to  come,"  old  Abel 
broke  in  angrily.  "  Be  just,  Mr.  Leonard  —  be 
just." 

"  I  am  just.  Felix  knows  that  he  1ms  disobeyed 
me,  in  the  spirit  if  not  in  the  letter.  Do  you  not 
know  it,  Felix?  " 

"  Yes,  grandfather,  I  have  done  wrong  —  I've 
known  that  I  was  doing  wrong  every  time  I  came. 
Forgive  me,  grandfather." 

"  Felix,  I  forgive  you,  but  I  ask  you  to  promise 
me,  here  and  now,  that  you  will  never  again,  as 
long  as  you  live,  touch  a  violin." 

Dusky  crimson  rushed  madly  over  the  boy's 
face.  He  gave  a  cry  as  if  he  had  been  lashed  with 
a  whip.  Old  Abel  sprang  to  his  feet. 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          91 

"  Don't  you  ask  such  a  promise  of  him,  Mr.  Leon- 
ard," he  cried  furiously.  "  It's  a  sin,  that's  what 
it  is.  Man,  man,  what  blinds  you?  You  are 
blind.  Can't  you  see  what  is  in  the  boy?  His  soul 
is  full  of  music.  It'll  torture  him  to  death  —  or 
to  worse  —  if  you  don't  let  it  have  way." 

"  There  is  a  devil  in  such  music,"  said  Mr.  Leon- 
ard hotly. 

"  Ay,  there  may  be,  but  don't  forget  that  there's 
a  Christ  in  it,  too,"  retorted  old  Abel  in  a  low  tense 
tone. 

Mr.  Leonard  looked  shocked;  he  considered 
that  old  Abel  had  uttered  blasphemy.  He  turned 
away  from  him  rebukingly. 

"  Felix,  promise  me." 

There  was  no  relenting  in  his  face  or  tone.  He 
was  merciless  in  the  use  of  the  power  he  possessed 
over  that  young,  loving  spirit.  Felix  understood 
that  there  was  no  escape;  but  his  lips  were  very 
white  as  he  said, 

"  I  promise,  grandfather." 

Mr.  Leonard  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  He 
knew  that  promise  would  be  kept.  So  did  old 
Abel.  The  latter  crossed  the  floor  and  sullenly 
took  the  violin  from  Felix's  relaxed  hand.  With- 
out a  word  or  look  he  went  into  the  little  bedroom 
off  the  kitchen  and  shut  the  door  with  a  slam  of 
righteous  indignation.  But  from  its  window  he 


92  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

stealthily  watched  his  visitors  go  away.  Just  as 
they  entered  on  the  maple  path  Mr.  Leonard 
laid  his  hand  on  Felix's  head  and  looked  down  at 
him.  Instantly  the  boy  flung  his  arm  up  over  the 
old  man's  shoulder  and  smiled  at  him.  In  the  look 
they  exchanged  there  was  boundless  love  and 
trust  —  ay,  and  good-fellowship.  Old  Abel's 
scornful  eyes  again  held  the  golden  flash. 

"  How  those  two  love  each  other!  "  he  muttered 
enviously.  "  And  how  they  torture  each  other!  " 

Mr.  Leonard  went  to  his  study  to  pray  when  he 
got  home.  He  knew  that  Felix  had  run  for  com- 
forting to  Janet  Andrews,  the  little  thin,  sweet- 
faced,  rigid-lipped  woman  who  kept  house  for 
them.  Mr.  Leonard  knew  that  Janet  would  dis- 
approve of  his  action  as  deeply  as  old  Abel  had 
done.  She  would  say  nothing,  she  would  only 
look  at  him  with  reproachful  eyes  over  the  teacups 
at  suppertime.  But  Mr.  Leonard  believed  he  had 
done  what  was  best  and  his  conscience  did  not 
trouble  him,  though  his  heart  did. 

Thirteen  years  before  this,  his  daughter  Mar- 
garet had  almost  broken  that  heart  by  marrying 
a  man  of  whom  he  could  not  approve.  Martin 
Moore  was  a  professional  violinist.  He  was  a 
popular  performer,  though  not  in  any  sense  a 
great  one.  He  met  the  slim,  golden-haired  daugh- 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE          93 

ter  of  the  manse  at  the  house  of  a  college  friend 
she  was  visiting  in  Toronto,  and  fell  straightway 
in  love  with  her.  Margaret  had  loved  him  with 
all  her  virginal  heart  in  return,  and  married  him, 
despite  her  father's  disapproval.  It  was  not  to 
Martin  Moore's  profession  that  Mr.  Leonard  ob- 
jected, but  to  the  man  himself.  He  knew  that  the 
violinist's  past  life  had  not  been  such  as  became  a 
suitor  for  Margaret  Leonard ;  and  his  insight  into 
character  warned  him  that  Martin  Moore  could 
never  make  any  woman  lastingly  happy. 

Margaret  Leonard  did  not  believe  this.  She 
married  Martin  Moore  and  lived  one  year  in  para- 
dise. Perhaps  that  atoned  for  the  three  bitter 
years  which  followed  —  that,  and  her  child.  At 
all  events,  she  died  as  she  had  lived,  loyal  and  un- 
complaining. She  died  alone,  for  her  husband  was 
away  on  a  concert  tour,  and  her  illness  was  so 
brief  that  her  father  had  not  time  to  reach  her 
before  the  end.  Her  body  was  taken  home  to  be 
buried  beside  her  mother  in  the  little  Carmody 
churchyard.  Mr.  Leonard  wished  to  take  the 
child,  but  Martin  Moore  refused  to  give  him  up. 

Six  years  later  Moore,  too,  died,  and  at  last 
Mr.  Leonard  had  his  heart's  desire  —  the  posses- 
sion of  Margaret's  son.  The  grandfather  awaited 
the  child's  coming  with  mingled  feelings.  His 
heart  yearned  for  him,  yet  he  dreaded  to  meet  a 


94  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

second  edition  of  Martin  Moore.  Suppose  Mar- 
garet's son  resembled  his  handsome  vagabond  of 
a  father!  Or,  worse  still,  suppose  he  were  cursed 
with  his  father's  lack  of  principle,  his  instability, 
his  Bohemian  instincts.  Thus  Mr.  Leonard  tor- 
tured himself  wretchedly  before  the  coming  of 
Felix. 

The  child  did  not  look  like  either  father  or 
mother.  Instead,  Mr.  Leonard  found  himself 
looking  into  a  face  which  he  had  put  away  under 
the  grasses  thirty  years  before,  —  the  face  of  his 
girl  bride,  who  had  died  at  Margaret's  birth. 
Here  again  were  her  lustrous  gray-black  eyes, 
her  ivory  outlines,  her  fine- traced  arch  of  brow; 
and  here,  looking  out  of  those  eyes,  seemed  her 
very  spirit  again.  From  that  moment  the  soul 
of  the  old  man  was  knit  to  the  soul  of  the  child, 
and  they  loved  each  other  with  a  love  surpassing 
that  of  women. 

Felix's  only  inheritance  from  his  father  was  his 
love  of  music.  But  the  child  had  genius,  where 
his  father  had  possessed  only  talent.  To  Martin 
Moore's  outward  mastery  of  the  violin  was  added 
the  mystery  and  intensity  of  his  mother's  nature, 
with  some  more  subtle  quality  still,  which  had 
perhaps  come  to  him  from  the  grandmother  he  so 
strongly  resembled.  Moore  had  understood  what 
a  career  was  naturally  before  the  child,  and  he  had 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE         95 

trained  him  in  the  technique  of  his  art  from  the 
time  the  slight  fingers  could  first  grasp  the  bow. 
When  nine-year-old  Felix  came  to  the  Carmody 
manse  he  had  mastered  as  much  of  the  science  of 
the  violin  as  nine  out  of  ten  musicians  acquire  in 
a  lifetime;  and  he  brought  with  him  his  father's 
violin;  it  was  all  Martin  Moore  had  to  leave  his 
son  —  but  it  was  an  Amati,  the  commercial  value 
of  which  nobody  in  Carmody  suspected.  Mr. 
Leonard  had  taken  possession  of  it  and  Felix  had 
never  seen  it  since.  He  cried  himself  to  sleep 
many  a  night  for  the  loss  of  it.  Mr.  Leonard  did 
not  know  this,  and  if  Janet  Andrews  suspected 
it  she  held  her  tongue  —  an  art  in  which  she  ex- 
celled. She  "  saw  no  harm  in  a  fiddle,"  herself, 
and  thought  Mr.  Leonard  absurdly  strict  in  the 
matter,  though  it  would  not  have  been  well  for 
the  luckless  outsider  who  might  have  ventured 
to  say  as  much  to  her.  She  had  connived  at 
Felix's  visits  to  old  Abel  Blair,  squaring  the  mat- 
ter with  her  Presbyterian  conscience  by  some 
peculiar  process  known  only  to  herself. 

When  Janet  heard  of  the  promise  which  Mr. 
Leonard  had  exacted  from  Felix  she  seethed  with 
indignation;  and,  though  she  "  knew  her  place  " 
better  than  say  anything  to  Mr.  Leonard  about 
it,  she  made  her  disapproval  so  plainly  manifest 
in  her  bearing  that  the  stern,  gentle  old  man  found 


96  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

the  atmosphere  of  his  hitherto  peaceful  manse 
unpleasantly  chill  and  hostile  for  a  time. 

It  was  the  wish  of  his  heart  that  Felix  should 
be  a  minister,  as  he  would  have  wished  his  own 
son  to  be,  had  one  been  born  to  him.  Mr.  Leon- 
ard thought  rightly  that  the  highest  work  to  which 
any  man  could  be  called  was  a  life  of  service  to  his 
fellows;  but  he  made  the  mistake  of  supposing 
the  field  of  service  much  narrower  than  it  is  — 
of  failing  to  see  that  a  man  may  minister  to  the 
needs  of  humanity  in  many  different  but  equally 
effective  ways. 

Janet  hoped  that  Mr.  Leonard  might  not  exact 
the  fulfilment  of  Felix's  promise;  but  Felix  him- 
self, with  the  instinctive  understanding  of  perfect 
love,  knew  that  it  was  vain  to  hope  for  any  change 
of  viewpoint  in  his  grandfather.  He  addressed 
himself  to  the  keeping  of  his  promise  in  letter  and 
in  spirit.  He  never  went  again  to  old  Abel's;  he 
did  not  even  play  on  the  organ,  though  this  was 
not  forbidden,  because  any  music  wakened  in 
him  a  passion  of  longing  and  ecstasy  which  de- 
manded expression  with  an  intensity  not  to  be 
borne.  He  flung  himself  grimly  into  his  studies 
and  conned  Latin  and  Greek  verbs  with  a  persist- 
ency which  soon  placed  him  at  the  head  of  all 
competitors. 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE         97 

Only  once  in  the  long  winter  did  he  come  near 
to  breaking  his  promise.  One  evening,  when 
March  was  melting  into  April,  and  the  pulses  of 
spring  were  stirring  under  the  lingering  snow,  he 
was  walking  home  from  school  alone.  As  he  de- 
scended into  the  little  hollow  below  the  manse  a 
lively  lilt  of  music  drifted  up  to  meet  him.  It  was 
only  the  product  of  a  mouth-organ,  manipulated 
by  a  little  black-eyed,  French-Canadian  hired  boy, 
sitting  on  the  fence  by  the  brook;  but  there  was 
music  in  the  ragged  urchin  and  it  came  out  through 
his  simple  toy.  It  tingled  over  Felix  from  head 
to  foot ;  and,  when  Leon  held  out  the  mouth-organ 
with  a  fraternal  grin  of  invitation,  he  snatched 
at  it  as  a  famished  creature  might  snatch  at  food. 

Then,  with  it  half  way  to  his  lips,  he  paused. 
True,  it  was  only  the  violin  he  had  promised  never 
to  touch;  but  he  felt  that  if  he  gave  way  ever  so 
little  to  the  desire  that  was  in  him,  it  would  sweep 
everything  before  it.  If  he  played  on  Leon  Buote's 
mouth-organ,  there  in  that  misty  spring  dale,  he 
would  go  to  old  Abel's  that  evening ;  he  knew  he 
would  go.  To  Leon's  amazement,  Felix  threw 
the  mouth-organ  back  at  him  and  ran  up  the  hill 
as  if  he  were  pursued.  There  was  something  in  his 
boyish  face  that  frightened  Leon;  and  it  fright- 
ened Janet  Andrews  as  Felix  rushed  past  her  in 
the  hall  of  the  manse. 


98  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Child,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  "  she  cried. 
"  Are  you  sick?  Have  you  been  scared?  " 

"  No,  no.  Leave  me  alone,  Janet,"  said  Felix 
chokingly,  dashing  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room. 

He  was  quite  composed  when  he  came  down  to 
tea,  an  hour  later,  though  he  was  unusually  pale 
and  had  purple  shadows  under  his  large  eyes. 

Mr.  Leonard  scrutinized  him  somewhat  anx- 
iously; it  suddenly  occurred  to  the  old  minister 
that  Felix  was  looking  more  delicate  than  his  wont 
this  spring.  Well,  he  had  studied  hard  all  winter, 
and  he  was  certainly  growing  very  fast.  When 
vacation  came  he  must  be  sent  away  for  a  visit. 

"  They  tell  me  Naomi  Clark  is  real  sick,"  said 
Janet.  "  She  has  been  ailing  all  winter,  and  now 
she's  fast  to  her  bed.  Mrs.  Murphy  says  she  be- 
lieves the  woman  is  dying,  but  nobody  dares  tell 
her  so.  She  won't  give  in  she's  sick,  nor  take 
medicine.  And  there's  nobody  to  wait  on  her  ex- 
cept that  simple  creature,  Maggie  Peterson." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  go  and  see  her,"  said 
Mr.  Leonard  uneasily. 

"  What  use  would  it  be  to  bother  yourself? 
You  know  she  wouldn't  see  you  —  she'd  shut  the 
door  in  your  face  like  she  did  before.  She's  an 
awful  wicked  woman  —  but  it's  kind  of  terrible  to 
think  of  her  lying  there  sick,  with  no  responsible 
person  to  tend  her." 


EACH   IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE         99 

"  Naomi  Clark  is  a  bad  woman  and  she  lived 
a  life  of  shame,  but  I  like  her,  for  all  that,"  re- 
marked Felix,  in  the  grave,  meditative  tone  in 
which  he  occasionally  said  rather  startling  things. 

Mr.  Leonard  looked  somewhat  reproachfully  at 
Janet  Andrews,  as  if  to  ask  her  why  Felix  should 
have  attained  to  this  dubious  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil  under  her  care;  and  Janet  shot  a  dour 
look  back  which,  being  interpreted,  meant  that 
if  Felix  went  to  the  district  school  she  could  not 
and  would  not  be  held  responsible  if  he  learned 
more  there  than  arithmetic  and  Latin. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  Naomi  Clark  to  like 
or  dislike?  "  she  asked  curiously.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  her?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Felix  replied,  addressing  himself  to 
his  cherry  preserve  with  considerable  gusto.  "  I 
was  down  at  Spruce  Cove  one  night  last  summer 
when  a  big  thunderstorm  came  up.  I  went  to 
Naomi's  house  for  shelter.  The  door  was  open,  so 
I  walked  right  in,  because  nobody  answered  my 
knock.  Naomi  Clark  was  at  the  window,  watching 
the  cloud  coming  up  over  the  sea.  She  just  looked 
at  me  once,  but  didn't  say  anything,  and  then 
went  on  watching  the  cloud.  I  didn't  like  to  sit 
down  because  she  hadn't  asked  me  to,  so  I  went 
to  the  window  by  her  and  watched  it,  too.  It  was 
a  dreadful  sight  —  the  cloud  was  so  black  and  the 


100          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

water  so  green,  and  there  was  such  a  strange  light 
between  the  cloud  and  the  water;  yet  there  was 
something  splendid  in  it,  too.  Part  of  the  time  I 
watched  the  storm,  and  the  other  part  I  watched 
Naomi's  face.  It  was  dreadful  to  see,  like  the 
storm,  and  yet  I  liked  to  see  it. 

"  After  the  thunder  was  over  it  rained  a  while 
longer,  and  Naomi  sat  down  and  talked  to  me. 
She  asked  me  who  I  was,  and  when  I  told  her  she 
asked  me  to  play  something  for  her  on  her  violin," 
—  Felix  shot  a  deprecating  glance  at  Mr.  Leonard 
—  "  because,  she  said,  she'd  heard  I  was  a  great 
hand  at  it.  She  wanted  something  lively,  and  I 
tried  just  as  hard  as  I  could  to  play  something  like 
that.  But  I  couldn't.  I  played  something  that 
was  terrible  —  it  just  played  itself  —  it  seemed  as 
if  something  was  lost  that  could  never  be  found 
again.  And  before  I  got  through  Naomi  came  at 
me,  and  tore  the  violin  from  me,  and  —  swore. 
And  she  said,  '  You  big-eyed  brat,  how  did  you 
know  that  ?  '  Then  she  took  me  by  the  arm  —  and 
she  hurt  me,  too,  I  can  tell  you  —  and  she  put 
me  right  out  in  the  rain  and  slammed  the 
door." 

"  The  rude,  unmannerly  creature!  "  said  Janet 
indignantly. 

"  Oh,  no,  she  was  quite  in  the  right,"  said  Felix 
composedly.  "  It  served  me  right  for  what  I 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        101 

played.  You  see,  she  didn't  know  I  couldn't  help 
playing  it.  I  suppose  she  thought  I  did  it  on  pur- 
pose." 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  play,  child?  " 

11  I  don't  know."  Felix  shivered.  "  It  was 
awful  —  it  was  dreadful.  It  was  fit  to  break  your 
heart.  But  it  had  to  be  played,  if  I  played  any- 
thing at  all." 

"  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  —  I  de- 
clare I  don't,"  said  Janet  in  bewilderment. 

"  I  think  we'll  change  the  subject  of  conversa- 
tion," said  Mr.  Leonard. 

It  was  a  month  later  when  "  the  simple  creature, 
Maggie  "  appeared  at  the  manse  door  one  evening 
and  asked  for  the  preacher. 

"  Naomi  wants  ter  see  yer,"  she  mumbled. 
"  Naomi  sent  Maggie  ter  tell  yer  ter  come  at 
onct." 

"  I  shall  go,  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Leonard  gently. 
"  Is  she  very  ill?  " 

"  Her's  dying,"  said  Maggie  with  a  broad  grin. 
"  And  her's  awful  skeered  of  hell.  Her  just  knew 
ter-day  her  was  dying.  Maggie  told  her  —  her 
wouldn't  believe  the  harbour  women,  but  her 
believed  Maggie.  Her  yelled  awful." 

Maggie  chuckled  to  herself  over  the  gruesome 
remembrance.  Mr.  Leonard,  his  heart  filled  with 


102          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

pity,  called  Janet  and  told  her  to  give  the  poor 
creature  some  refreshment.  But  Maggie  shook 
her  head. 

"  No,  no,  preacher,  Maggie  must  get  right  back 
to  Naomi.  Maggie'll  tell  her  the  preacher's  com- 
ing ter  save  her  from  hell." 

She  uttered  an  eerie  cry,  and  ran  at  full  speed 
shoreward  through  the  spruce  woods. 

"  The  Lord  save  us!  "  said  Janet  in  an  awed 
tone.  "  I  knew  the  poor  girl  was  simple,  but  I 
didn't  know  she  was  like  that.  And  are  you  going, 
sir?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  pray  God  I  may  be  able 
to  help  the  poor  soul,"  said  Mr.  Leonard  sincerely. 
He  was  a  man  who  never  shirked  what  he  believed 
to  be  his  duty ;  but  duty  had  sometimes  presented 
itself  to  him  in  pleasanter  guise  than  this  summons 
to  Naomi  Clark's  death-bed. 

The  woman  had  been  the  plague  spot  of  Lower 
Carmody  and  Carmody  Harbour  for  a  generation. 
In  the  earlier  days  of  his  ministry  to  the  congre- 
gation he  had  tried  to  reclaim  her,  and  Naomi  had 
mocked  and  flouted  him  to  his  face.  Then,  for 
the  sake  of  those  to  whom  she  was  a  snare  or  a 
heart-break,  he  had  endeavoured  to  set  the  law 
in  motion  against  her,  and  Naomi  had  laughed  the 
law  to  scorn.  Finally,  he  had  been  compelled  to 
let  her  alone. 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        103 

Yet  Naomi  had  not  always  been  an  outcast. 
Her  girlhood  had  been  innocent ;  but  she  was  the 
possessor  of  a  dangerous  beauty,  and  her  mother 
was  dead.  Her  father  was  a  man  notorious  for 
his  harshness  and  violence  of  temper.  When  Na- 
omi made  the  fatal  mistake  of  trusting  to  a  false 
love  that  betrayed  and  deserted,  he  drove  her 
from  his  door  with  taunts  and  curses. 

Naomi  took  up  her  quarters  in  a  little  deserted 
house  at  Spruce  Cove.  Had  her  child  lived  it 
might  have  saved  her.  But  it  died  at  birth,  and 
with  its  little  life  went  her  last  chance  of  worldly 
redemption.  From  that  time  forth  her  feet  were 
set  in  the  way  that  takes  hold  on  hell. 

For  the  past  five  years,  however,  Naomi  had 
lived  a  tolerably  respectable  life.  When  Janet 
Peterson  had  died,  her  idiot  daughter,  Maggie, 
had  been  left  with  no  kith  or  kin  in  the  world. 
Nobody  knew  what  was  to  be  done  with  her,  for 
nobody  wanted  to  be  bothered  with  her.  Naomi 
Clark  went  to  the  girl  and  offered  her  a  home. 
People  said  she  was  no  fit  person  to  have  charge 
of  Maggie,  but  everybody  shirked  the  unpleasant 
task  of  interfering  in  the  matter,  except  Mr. 
Leonard,  who  went  to  expostulate  with  Naomi, 
and,  as  Janet  said,  for  his  pains  got  her  door  shut 
in  his  face. 

But  from  the  day  when  Maggie  Peterson  went 


104          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

to  live  with  her,  Naomi  ceased  to  be  the  harbour 
Magdalen. 

The  sun  had  set  when  Mr.  Leonard  reached 
Spruce  Cove,  and  the  harbour  was  veiling  itself 
in  a  wondrous  twilight  splendour.  Afar  out,  the 
sea  lay  throbbing  and  purple,  and  the  moan  of  the 
bar  came  through  the  sweet,  chill  spring  air  with 
its  burden  of  hopeless,  endless  longing  and  seek- 
ing. The  sky  was  blossoming  into  stars  above 
the  afterglow;  out  to  the  east  the  moon  was 
rising,  and  the  sea  beneath  it  was  a  thing  of  radi- 
ance and  silver  and  glamour ;  and  a  little  harbour 
boat  that  went  sailing  across  it  was  transmuted 
into  an  elfin  shallop  from  the  coast  of  fairyland. 

Mr.  Leonard  sighed  as  he  turned  from  the  sin- 
less beauty  of  the  sea  and  sky  to  the  threshold 
of  Naomi  Clark's  house.  It  was  very  small  — 
one  room  below,  and  a  sleeping-loft  above;  but 
a  bed  had  been  made  up  for  the  sick  woman  by 
the  down-stairs  window  looking  out  on  the  har- 
bour; and  Naomi  lay  on  it,  with  a  lamp  burning 
at  her  head  and  another  at  her  side,  although  it 
was  not  yet  dark.  A  great  dread  of  darkness  had 
always  been  one  of  Naomi's  peculiarities. 

She  was  tossing  restlessly  on  her  poor  couch, 
while  Maggie  crouched  on  a  box  at  the  foot.  Mr. 
Leonard  had  not  seen  her  for  five  years,  and  he 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        105 

was  shocked  at  the  change  in  her.  She  was  much 
wasted;  her  clear-cut,  aquiline  features  had  been 
of  the  type  which  becomes  indescribably  witch- 
like  in  old  age,  and,  though  Naomi  Clark  was 
barely  sixty,  she  looked  as  if  she  might  be  a  hun- 
dred. Her  hair  streamed  over  the  pillow  in  white, 
uncared-for  tresses,  and  the  hands  that  plucked 
at  the  bed-clothes  were  like  wrinkled  claws.  Only 
her  eyes  were  unchanged ;  they  were  as  blue  and 
brilliant  as  ever,  but  now  filled  with  such  agonized 
terror  and  appeal  that  Mr.  Leonard's  gentle  heart 
almost  stood  still  with  the  horror  of  them.  They 
were  the  eyes  of  a  creature  driven  wild  with  tor- 
ture, hounded  by  furies,  clutched  by  unutterable 
fear. 

Naomi  sat  up  and  dragged  at  his  arm. 

"  Can  you  help  me?  Can  you  help  me?  "  she 
gasped  imploringly.  "  Oh,  I  thought  you'd  never 
come!  I  was  skeered  I'd  die  before  you  got  here 
—  die  and  go  to  hell.  I  didn't  know  before  to- 
day that  I  was  dying.  None  of  those  cowards 
would  tell  me.  Can  you  help  me?  " 

"  If  I  cannot,  God  can,"  said  Mr.  Leonard 
gently.  He  felt  himself  very  helpless  and  ineffi- 
cient before  this  awful  terror  and  frenzy.  He  had 
seen  sad  death-beds  —  troubled  death-beds  — 
ay,  and  despairing  death-beds,  but  never  anything 
like  this. 


106          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  God!  "  Naomi's  voice  shrilled  terribly  as  she 
uttered  the  name.  "  I  can't  go  to  God  for  help. 
Oh,  I'm  skeered  of  hell,  but  I'm  skeereder  still 
of  God.  I'd  rather  go  to  hell  a  thousand  times 
over  than  face  God  after  the  life  I've  lived.  I  tell 
you  I'm  sorry  for  living  wicked  —  I  was  always 
sorry  for  it  all  the  time.  There  ain't  never  been 
a  moment  I  wasn't  sorry,  though  nobody  would 
believe  it.  I  was  driven  on  by  fiends  of  hell.  Oh, 
you  don't  understand  —  you  can't  understand  — 
but  I  was  always  sorry!  " 

"  If  you  repent,  that  is  all  that  is  necessary. 
God  will  forgive  you  if  you  ask  Him." 

"  No,  He  can't!  Sins  like  mine  can't  be  for- 
given. He  can't  —  and  He  won't." 

"  He  can  and  He  will.  He  is  a  God  of  love, 
Naomi." 

"  No,"  said  Naomi  with  stubborn  conviction. 
"  He  isn't  a  God  of  love  at  all.  That's  why  I'm 
skeered  of  him.  No,  no.  He's  a  God  of  wrath 
and  justice  and  punishment.  Love!  There  ain't 
no  such  thing  as  love!  I've  never  found  it  on 
earth,  and  I  don't  believe  it's  to  be  found  in  God." 

"  Naomi,  God  loves  us  like  a  father." 

"  Like  my  father?  "  Naomi's  shrill  laughter, 
pealing  through  the  still  room,  was  hideous  to 
hear. 

The  old  minister  shuddered. 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE       107 

"  No  —  no!  As  a  kind,  tender,  all- wise  father, 
Naomi  —  as  you  would  have  loved  your  little 
child  if  it  had  lived." 

Naomi  cowered  and  moaned. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  believe  that.  I  wouldn't  be 
frightened  if  I  could  believe  that.  Make  me  be- 
lieve it.  Surely  you  can  make  me  believe  that 
there's  love  and  forgiveness  in  God  if  you  believe 
it  yourself." 

"  Jesus  Christ  forgave  and  loved  the  Magda- 
len, Naomi." 

"  Jesus  Christ?  Oh,  I  ain't  afraid  of  Him. 
Yes,  He  could  understand  and  forgive.  He  was 
half  human.  I  tell  you  it's  God  I'm  skeered 
of." 

"  They  are  one  and  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Leon- 
ard helplessly.  He  knew  he  could  not  make 
Naomi  realize  it.  This  anguished  death-bed  was 
no  place  for  a  theological  exposition  on  the  myste- 
ries of  the  Trinity. 

"  Christ  died  for  you,  Naomi.  He  bore  your 
sins  in  His  own  body  on  the  cross." 

"  We  bear  our  own  sins,"  said  Naomi  fiercely. 
"I've  borne  mine  all  my  life  —  and  I'll  bear  them 
for  jail  eternity.  I  can't  believe  anything  else. 
I  can't  believe  God  can  forgive -me.  I've  ruined 
people  body  and  soul — I've  broken  hearts  and 
poisoned  homes  —  I'm  worse  than  a  murderess. 


108          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

No  —  no  —  no,  there's  no  hope  for  me."  Her 
voice  rose  again  into  that  shrill,  intolerable  shriek. 
"  I've  got  to  go  to  hell.  It  ain't  so  much  the  fire 
I'm  skeered  of  as  the  outer  darkness.  I've  always 
been  so  skeered  of  darkness  —  it's  so  full  of  awful 
things  and  thoughts.  Oh,  there  ain't  nobody  to 
help  me!  Man  ain't  no  good  and  I'm  too  skeered 
of  God." 

She  wrung  her  hands.  Mr.  Leonard  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  in  the  keenest  anguish  of 
spirit  he  had  ever  known.  What  could  he  do? 
What  could  he  say?  There  was  healing  and  peace 
in  his  religion  for  this  woman  as  for  all  others,  but 
he  could  express  it  in  no  language  which  this  tor- 
tured soul  could  understand.  He  looked  at  her 
writhing  face ;  he  looked  at  the  idiot  girl  chuckling 
to  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  he  looked  through 
the  open  door  to  the  remote,  starlit  night  —  and 
a  horrible  sense  of  utter  helplessness  overcame 
him.  He  could  do  nothing  —  nothing!  In  all  his 
life  he  had  never  known  such  bitterness  of  soul 
as  the  realization  brought  home  to  him. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  you  if  you  can't  help  me?  " 
moaned  the  dying  woman.  "Pray  —  pray  — 
pray!"  she  shrilled  suddenly. 

Mr.  Leonard  dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  bed. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  say.  No  prayer  that  he 
had  ever  prayed  was  of  use  here.  The  old,  beauti- 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        109 

ful  formulas,  which  had  soothed  and  helped  the 
passing  of  many  a  soul,  were  naught  save  idle, 
empty  words  to  Naomi  Clark.  In  his  anguish  of 
mind  Stephen  Leonard  gasped  out  the  briefest 
and  sincerest  prayer  his  lips  had  ever  uttered. 

"  O,  God,  our  Father!  Help  this  woman.  Speak 
to  her  in  a  tongue  which  she  can  understand." 

A  beautiful,  white  face  appeared  for  a  moment 
in  the  light  that  streamed  out  of  the  doorway  into 
the  darkness  of  the  night.  No  one  noticed  it, 
and  it  quickly  drew  back  into  the  shadow.  Sud- 
denly Naomi  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  her  lips  blue, 
her  face  horribly  pinched,  her  eyes  rolled  up  in 
her  head.  Maggie  started  up,  pushed  Mr.  Leon- 
ard aside,  and  proceeded  to  administer  some 
remedy  with  surprising  skill  and  deftness.  Mr. 
Leonard,  believing  Naomi  to  be  dying,  went  to  the 
door,  feeling  sick  and  bruised  in  soul. 

Presently  a  figure  stole  out  into  the  light. 

"  Felix,  is  that  you?  "  said  Mr.  Leonard  in  a 
startled  tone. 

"  Yes,  sir."  Felix  came  up  to  the  stone  step. 
"  Janet  got  frightened  that  you  might  fall  on  that 
rough  road  after  dark,  so  she  made  me  come  after 
you  with  a  lantern.  I've  been  waiting  behind  the 
point,  but  at  last  I  thought  I'd  better  come  and 
see  if  you  would  be  staying  much  longer.  If  you 


110          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

will  be,  I'll  go  back  to  Janet  and  leave  the  lantern 
here  with  you." 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  thing  to  do.  I  may 
not  be  ready  to  go  home  for  some  time  yet,"  said 
Mr.  Leonard,  thinking  that  the  death-bed  of  sin 
behind  him  was  no  sight  for  Felix's  young  eyes. 

"Is  that  your  grandson  you're^  talking  to?" 
Naomi  spoke  clearly  and  strongly.  The  spasm  had 
passed.  "  If  it  is,  bring  him  in.  I  want  to  see  him." 

Reluctantly  Mr.  Leonard  signed  Felix  to  enter. 
The  boy  stood  by  Naomi's  bed  and  looked  down 
at  her  with  sympathetic  eyes.  But  at  first  she 
did  not  look  at  him  —  she  looked  past  him  at  the 
minister. 

"  I  might  have  died  in  that  spell,"  she  said,  with 
sullen  reproach  in  her  voice,  "  and  if  I  had  I'd 
been  in  hell  now.  You  can't  help  me  —  I'm  done 
with  you.  There  ain't  any  hope  for  me,  and  I 
know  it  now." 

She  turned  to  Felix. 

"  Take  down  that  fiddle  on  the  wall  and  play 
something  for  me,"  she  said  imperiously.  "I'm 
dying  —  and  I'm  going  to  hell  —  and  I  don't 
want  to  think  of  it.  Play  me  something  to  take 
my  thoughts  off  it  —  I  don't  care  what  you  play. 
I  was  always  fond  of  music  —  there  was  always 
something  in  it  for  me  I  never  found  anywhere 
else." 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        111 

Felix  looked  at  his  grandfather.  The  old  man 
nodded;  he  felt  too  ashamed  to  speak;  he  sat 
with  his  fine  silver  head  in  his  hands,  while  Felix 
took  down  and  tuned  the  old  violin,  on  which  so 
many  godless  lilts  had  been  played  in  many  a  wild 
revel.  Mr.  Leonard  felt  that  he  had  failed  his 
religion.  He  could  not  give  Naomi  the  help  that 
was  in  it  for  her. 

Felix  drew  the  bow  softly,  perplexedly  over  the 
strings.  He  had  no  idea  what  he  should  play. 
Then  his  eyes  were  caught  and  held  by  Naomi's 
burning,  mesmeric,  blue  gaze  as  she  lay  on  her 
crumpled  pillow.  A  strange,  inspired  look  came 
over  the  boy's  face.  He  began  to  play  as  if  it 
were  not  he  who  played,  but  some  mightier  power, 
of  which  he  was  but  the  passive  instrument. 

Sweet  and  soft  and  wonderful  was  the  music 
that  stole  through  the  room.  Mr.  Leonard  forgot 
his  heart-break  and  listened  to  it  in  puzzled  amaze- 
ment. He  had  never  heard  anything  like  it  before. 
How  could  the  child  play  like  that  ?  He  looked  at 
Naomi  and  marvelled  at  the  change  in  her  face. 
The  fear  and  frenzy  were  going  out  of  it;  she  lis- 
tened breathlessly,  never  taking  her  eyes  from 
Felix.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  the  idiot  girl  sat  with 
tears  on  her  cheeks. 

In  that  strange  music  was  the  joy  of  innocent, 
mirthful  childhood,  blent  with  the  laughter  of 


112          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

waves  and  the  call  of  glad  winds.  Then  it  held 
the  wild,  wayward  dreams  of  youth,  sweet  and 
pure  in  all  their  wildness  and  waywardness.  They 
were  followed  by  a  rapture  of  young  love  —  all- 
surrendering,  all-sacrificing  love. 

The  music  changed.  It  held  the  torture  of  un- 
shed tears,  the  anguish  of  a  heart  deceived  and 
desolate.  Mr.  Leonard  almost  put  his  hands  over 
his  ears  to  shut  out  its  intolerable  poignancy.  But 
on  the  dying  woman's  face  was  only  a  strange 
relief,  as  if  some  dumb,  long-hidden  pain  had  at 
last  won  to  the  healing  of  utterance. 

The  sullen  indifference  of  despair  came  next, 
the  bitterness  of  smouldering  revolt  and  misery, 
the  reckless  casting  away  of  all  good.  There 
was  something  indescribably  evil  in  the  music 
now  —  so  evil  that  Mr.  Leonard's  white  soul 
shuddered  away  in  loathing,  and  Maggie  cowered 
and  whined  like  a  frightened  animal. 

Again  the  music  changed.  And  in  it  now  there 
was  agony  and  fear  —  and  repentance  and  a  cry 
for  pardon.  To  Mr.  Leonard  there  was  something 
strangely  familiar  in  it.  He  struggled  to  recall 
where  he  had  heard  it  before;  then  he  suddenly 
knew  —  he  had  heard  it  before  Felix  came  in 
Naomi's  terrible  words!  He  looked  at  his 
grandson  with  something  like  awe.  Here  was 
a  power  of  which  he  knew  nothing  —  a  strange 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        113 

and  dreadful  power.  Was  it  of  God!  Or  of 
Satan? 

For  the  last  time  the  music  changed.  And  now 
it  was  not  music  at  all  —  it  was  a  great,  infinite 
forgiveness,  an  all-comprehending  love.  It  was 
healing  for  a  sick  soul;  it  was  light  and  hope  and 
peace.  A  Bible  text,  seemingly  incongruous,  came 
into  Mr.  Leonard's  mind  —  "This  is  the  house 
of  God;  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven." 

Felix  lowered  the  violin  and  dropped  wearily 
on  a  chair  by  the  bed.  The  inspired  light  faded 
from  his  face ;  once  more  he  was  only  a  tired  boy. 
But  Stephen  Leonard  was  on  his  knees,  sobbing 
like  a  child;  and  Naomi  Clark  was  lying  still,  with 
her  hands  clasped  over  her  breast. 

"  I  understand  now,"  she  said  very  softly.  "  I 
couldn't  see  it  before  —  and  now  it's  so  plain.  I 
just  feel  it.  God  is  a  God  of  love.  He  can  forgive 
anybody  —  even  me  —  even  me.  He  knows  all 
about  it.  I  ain't  skeered  any  more.  He  just  loves 
me  and  forgives  me  as  I'd  have  loved  and  forgiven 
my  baby  if  she'd  lived,  no  matter  how  bad  she 
was,  or  what  she  did.  The  minister  told  me  that 
but  I  couldn't  believe  it.  I  know  it  now.  And  He 
sent  you  here  to-night,  boy,  to  tell  it  to  me  in  a 
way  that  I  could  feel  it." 


114          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Naomi  Clark  died  just  as  the  dawn  came  up 
over  the  sea.  Mr.  Leonard  rose  from  his  watch 
at  her  bedside  and  went  to  the  door.  Before  him 
spread  the  harbour,  gray  and  austere  in  the  faint 
light,  but  afar  out  the  sun  was  rending  asunder 
the  milk-white  mists  in  which  the  sea  was  scarfed, 
and  under  it  was  a  virgin  glow  of  sparkling  water. 

The  fir  trees  on  the  point  moved  softly  and 
whispered  together.  The  whole  world  sang  of 
spring  and  resurrection  and  life;  and  behind  him 
Naomi  Clark's  dead  face  took  on  the  peace  that 
passes  understanding. 

The  old  minister  and  his  grandson  walked  home 
together  in  a  silence  that  neither  wished  to  break. 
Janet  Andrews  gave  them  a  good  scolding  and  an 
excellent  breakfast.  Then  she  ordered  them  both 
to  bed ;  but  Mr.  Leonard,  smiling  at  her,  said : 

"  Presently,  Janet,  presently.  But  now  take 
this  key,  go  up  to  the  black  chest  in  the  garret, 
and  bring  me  what  you  will  find  there." 

When  Janet  had  gone  he  turned  to  Felix. 

"  Felix,  would  you  like  to  study  music  as  your 
life-work?  " 

Felix  looked  up,  with  a  transfiguring  flush  on  his 
wan  face. 

"  Oh,  grandfather!    Oh,  grandfather!  " 

"  You  may  do  so,  my  child.  After  this  night 
I  dare  not  hinder  you.  Go  with  my  blessing,  and 


EACH    IN    HIS    OWN    TONGUE        115 

may  God  guide  and  keep  you,  and  make  you  strong 
to  do  His  work  and  tell  His  message  to  humanity 
in  your  own  appointed  way.  It  is  not  the  way  I 
desired  for  you  —  but  I  see  that  I  was  mistaken. 
Old  Abel  spoke  truly  when  he  said  there  was  a 
Christ  in  your  violin  as  well  as  a  devil.  I  under- 
stand what  he  meant  now." 

He  turned  to  meet  Janet,  who  came  into  the 
study  with  a  violin.  Felix's  heart  throbbed;  he 
recognized  it.  Mr.  Leonard  took  it  from  Janet 
and  held  it  out  to  the  boy. 

"  This  is  your  father's  violin,  Felix.  See  to  it 
that  you  never  make  your  music  the  servant  of 
the  power  of  evil  —  never  debase  it  to  unworthy 
ends.  For  your  responsibility  is  as  your  gift,  and 
God  will  exact  the  accounting  of  it  from  you. 
Speak  to  the  world  in  your  own  tongue  through  it, 
with  truth  and  sincerity ;  and  all  I  have  hoped  for 
you  will  be  abundantly  fulfilled." 


IV 

LITTLE  JOSCELYN 

"  IT  simply  isn't  to  be  thought  of,  Aunty  Nan," 
said  Mrs.  William  Morrison  decisively.  Mrs. 
William  Morrison  was  one  of  those  people  who 
always  speak  decisively.  If  they  merely  announce 
that  they  are  going  to  peel  the  potatoes  for  din- 
ner their  hearers  realize  that  there  is  no  possible 
escape  for  the  potatoes.  Moreover,  these  people 
are  always  given  their  full  title  by  everybody. 
William  Morrison  was  called  Billy  oftener  than 
not ;  but,  if  you  had  asked  for  Mrs.  Billy  Morrison, 
nobody  in  Avonlea  would  have  known  what  you 
meant  at  first  guess. 

"  You  must  see  that  for  yourself,  Aunty,"  went 
on  Mrs.  William,  hulling  strawberries  nimbly 
with  her  large,,  firm,  white  fingers  as  she  talked. 
Mrs.  William  always  improved  every  shining  mo- 
ment. "  It  is  ten  miles  to  Kensington,  and  just 
think  how  late  you  would  be  getting  back.  You 
are  not  able  for  such  a  drive.  You  wouldn't  get 
over  it  for  a  month.  You  know  you  are  anything 
but  strong  this  summer." 

116 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  117 

Aunty  Nan  sighed,  and  patted  the  tiny,  furry, 
gray  morsel  of  a  kitten  in  her  lap  with  trembling 
ringers.  She  knew,  better  than  anyone  else  could 
know  it,  that  she  was  not  strong  that  summer. 
In  her  secret  soul,  Aunty  Nan,  sweet  and  frail  and 
timid  under  the  burden  of  her  seventy  years,  felt 
with  mysterious  unmistakable  prescience  that  it 
was  to  be  her  last  summer  at  the  Gull  Point  Farm. 
But  that  was  only  the  more  reason  why  she  should 
go  to  hear  little  Joscelyn  sing;  she  would  never 
have  another  chance.  And  oh,  to  hear  little  Jos- 
celyn sing  just  once  —  Joscelyn,  whose  voice  was 
delighting  thousands  out  in  the  big  world,  just  as 
in  the  years  gone  by  it  had  delighted  Aunty  Nan 
and  the  dwellers  at  the  Gull  Point  Farm  for  a 
whole  golden  summer  with  carols  at  dawn  and 
dusk  about  the  old  place! 

"  Oh,  I  know  I'm  not  very  strong,  Maria,"  said 
Aunty  Nan  pleadingly,  "  but  I  am  strong  enough 
for  that.  Indeed  I  am.  I  could  stay  at  Kensing- 
ton over  night  with  George's  folks,  you  know,  and 
so  it  wouldn't  tire  me  much.  I  do  so  want  to  hear 
Joscelyn  sing.  Oh,  how  I  love  little  Joscelyn." 

"  It  passes  my  understanding,  the  way  you 
hanker  after  that  child,"  cried  Mrs.  William  im- 
patiently. "  Why,  she  was  a  perfect  stranger  to 
you  when  she  came  here,  and  she  was  here  only  one 
summer!  " 


118          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

11  But  oh,  such  a  summer!  "  said  Aunty  Nan 
softly.  "  We  all  loved  little  Joscelyn.  She  just 
seemed  like  one  of  our  own.  She  was  one  of  God's 
children,  carrying  love  with  them  everywhere.  In 
some  ways  that  little  Anne  Shirley  the  Cuthberts 
have  got  up  there  at  Green  Gables  reminds  me 
of  her,  though  in  other  ways  they're  not  a  bit 
alike.  Joscelyn  was  a  beauty." 

"  Well,  that  Shirley  snippet  certainly  isn't  that," 
said  Mrs.  William  sarcastically.  "  And  if  Jos- 
celyn's  tongue  was  one  third  as  long  as  Anne 
Shirley's  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  she  didn't  talk 
you  all  to  death  out  of  hand." 

"  Little  Joscelyn  wasn't  much  of  a  talker,"  said 
Aunty  Nan  dreamily.  "  She  was  kind  of  a  quiet 
child.  But  you  remembered  what  she  did  say. 
And  I've  never  forgotten  little  Joscelyn." 

Mrs.  William  shrugged  her  plump,  shapely 
shoulders. 

"  Well,  it  was  fifteen  years  ago,  Aunty  Nan,  and 
Joscelyn  can't  be  very  '  little '  now.  She  is  a 
famous  woman,  and  she  has  forgotten  all  about 
you,  you  can  be  sure  of  that." 

"  Joscelyn  wasn't  the  kind  that  forgets,"  said 
Aunty  Nan  loyally.  "  And,  anyway,  the  point 
is,  7  haven't  forgotten  her.  Oh,  Maria,  I've  longed 
for  years  and  years  just  to  hear  her  sing  once  more. 
It  seems  as  if  I  must  hear  my  little  Joscelyn  sing 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  119 

once  again  before  I  die.  I've  never  had  the 
chance  before  and  I  never  will  have  it  again.  Do 
please  ask  William  to  take  me  to  Kensington." 

"  Dear  me,  Aunty  Nan,  this  is  really  childish," 
said  Mrs.  William,  whisking  her  bowlful  of  berries 
into  the  pantry.  "  You  must  let  other  folks  be 
the  judge  of  what  is  best  for  you  now.  You  aren't 
strong  enough  to  drive  to  Kensington,  and,  even 
if  you  were,  you  know  well  enough  that  William 
couldn't  go  to  Kensington  to-morrow  night.  He 
has  got  to  attend  that  political  meeting  at  New- 
bridge. They  can't  do  without  him." 

"  Jordan  could  take  me  to  Kensington,"  pleaded 
Aunty  Nan,  with  very  unusual  persistence. 

"Nonsense!  You  couldn't  go  to  Kensington 
with  the  hired  man.  Now,  Aunty  Nan,  do  be 
reasonable.  Aren't  William  and  I  kind  to  you? 
Don't  we  do  everything  for  your  comfort?  " 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  admitted  Aunty  Nan  depre- 
catingly. 

"  Well,  then,  you  ought  to  be  guided  by  our 
opinion.  And  you  must  just  give  up  thinking  about 
the  Kensington  concert,  Aunty,  and  not  worry 
yourself  and  me  about  it  any  more.  I  am  going 
down  to  the  shore  field  now  to  call  William  to  tea. 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  the  baby  in  chance  he  wakes 
up,  and  see  that  the  teapot  doesn't  boil  over." 

Mrs.  William  whisked  out  of  the  kitchen,  pre- 


120          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

tending  not  to  see  the  tears  that  were  falling  over 
Aunty  Nan's  withered  pink  cheeks.  Aunty  Nan 
was  really  getting  very  childish,  Mrs.  William  re- 
flected, as  she  marched  down  to  the  shore  field. 
Why,  she  cried  now  about  every  little  thing!  And 
such  a  notion  —  to  want  to  go  to  the  Old  Timers' 
concert  at  Kensington  and  be  so  set  on  it !  Really, 
it  was  hard  to  put  up  with  her  whims,  Mrs.  Will- 
iam sighed  virtuously. 

As  for  Aunty  Nan,  she  sat  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
and  cried  bitterly,  as  only  lonely  old  age  can  cry. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  bear  it,  that  she 
must  go  to  Kensington.  But  she  knew  that  it  was 
not  to  be,  since  Mrs.  William  had  decided  otherwise. 
Mrs.  William's  word  was  law  at  Gull  Point  Farm. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  my  old  Aunty  Nan?  " 
cried  a  hearty  young  voice  from  the  doorway. 
Jordan  Sloane  stood  there,  his  round,  freckled  face 
looking  as  anxious  and  sympathetic  as  it  was  pos- 
sible for  such  a  very  round,  very  freckled  face  to 
look.  Jordan  was  the  Morrisons'  hired  boy  that 
summer  and  he  worshipped  Aunty  Nan. 

"  Oh,  Jordan,"  sobbed  Aunty  Nan,  who  was 
not  above  telling  her  troubles  to  the  hired  help, 
although  Mrs.  William  thought  she  ought  to  be, 
"  I  can't  go  to  Kensington  to-morrow  night  to 
hear  little  Joscelyn  sing  at  the  Old  Timers'  con- 
cert. Maria  says  I  can't." 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  121 

"  That's  too  bad,"  said  Jordan.  "  Old  cat," 
he  muttered  after  the  retreating  and  serenely  tin- 
conscious  Mrs.  William.  Then  he  shambled  in 
and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside  Aunty  Nan. 

"  There,  there,  don't  cry,"  he  said,  patting  her 
thin  little  shoulder  with  his  big,  sunburned  paw. 
"  You'll  make  yourself  sick  if  you  go  on  crying, 
and  we  can't  get  along  without  you  at  Gull  Point 
Farm." 

Aunty  Nan  smiled  wanly. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  soon  have  to  get  on  without 
me,  Jordan.  I'm  not  going  to  be  here  very  long 
now.  No,  I'm  not,  Jordan,  I  know  it.  Something 
tells  me  so  very  plainly.  But  I  would  be  willing 
to  go  —  glad  to  go,  for  I'm  very  tired,  Jordan  — 
if  I  could  only  have  heard  little  Joscelyn  sing  once 
more." 

"  Why  are  you  so  set  on  hearing  her?  "  asked 
Jordan.  "  She  ain't  no  kin  to  you,  is  she?  " 

"  No,  but  dearer  to  me  —  dearer  to  me  than 
many  of  my  own.  Maria  thinks  that  is  silly,  but 
you  wouldn't  if  you'd  known  her,  Jordan.  Even 
Maria  herself  wouldn't,  if  she  had  known  her.  It 
is  fifteen  years  since  she  came  here  one  summer 
to  board.  She  was  a  child  of  thirteen  then,  and 
hadn't  any  relations  except  an  old  uncle  who  sent 
her  to  school  in  winter  and  boarded  her  out  in 
summer,  and  didn't  care  a  rap  about  her.  The 


122          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

child  was  just  starving  for  love,  Jordan,  and  she 
got  it  here.  William  and  his  brothers  were  just 
children  then,  and  they  hadn't  any  sister.  We  all 
just  worshipped  her.  She  was  so  sweet,  Jordan. 
And  pretty,  oh  my!  like  a  little  girl  in  a  picture, 
with  great  long  curls,  all  black  and  purply  and 
fine  as  spun  silk,  and  big  dark  eyes,  and  such  pink 
cheeks  —  real  wild  rose  cheeks.  And  sing!  My 
land!  But  couldn't  she  sing!  Always  singing, 
every  hour  of  the  day  that  voice  was  ringing  round 
the  old  place.  I  used  to  hold  my  breath  to  hear 
it.  She  always  said  that  she  meant  to  be  a  famous 
singer  some  day,  and  I  never  doubted  it  a  mite. 
It  was  born  in  her.  Sunday  evening  she  used  to 
sing  hymns  for  us.  Oh,  Jordan,  it  makes  my  old 
heart  young  again  to  remember  it.  A  sweet  child 
she  was,  my  little  Joscelyn !  She  used  to  write  me 
for  three  or  four  years  after  she  went  away,  but 
I  haven't  heard  a  word  from  her  for  long  and 
long.  I  daresay  she  has  forgotten  me,  as  Maria 
says.  'Twouldn't  be  any  wonder.  But  I  haven't 
forgotten  her,  and  oh,  I  want  to  see  and  hear  her 
terrible  much.  She  is  to  sing  at  the  Old  Timers' 
concert  to-morrow  night  at  Kensington.  The 
folks  who  are  getting  the  concert  up  are  friends  of 
hers,  or,  of  course,  she'd  never  have  come  to  a 
little  country  village.  Only  sixteen  miles  away  — 
and  I  can't  go." 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  123 

Jordan  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say.  He 
reflected  savagely  that  if  he  had  a  horse  of  his  own 
he  would  take  Aunty  Nan  to  Kensington,  Mrs. 
William  or  no  Mrs.  William.  Though,  to  be  sure, 
it  was  a  long  drive  for  her;  and  she  was  looking 
very  frail  this  summer. 

"  Ain't  going  to  last  long,"  muttered  Jordan, 
making  his  escape  by  the  porch  door  as  Mrs. 
William  puffed  in  by  the  other.  "  The  sweetest 
old  creetur  that  ever  was  created'll  go  when  she 
goes.  Yah,  ye  old  madam,  I'd  like  to  give  you  a 
piece  of  my  mind,  that  I  would !  ". 

This  last  was  for  Mrs.  William,  but  was  deliv- 
ered in  a  prudent  undertone.  Jordan  detested 
Mrs.  William,  but  she  was  a  power  to  be  reckoned 
with,  all  the  same.  Meek,  easy-going  Billy  Morri- 
son did  just  what  his  wife  told  him  to. 

So  Aunty  Nan  did  not  get  to  Kensington  to 
hear  little  Joscelyn  sing.  She  said  nothing  more 
about  it  but  after  that  night  she  seemed  to  fail 
very  rapidly.  Mrs.  William  said  it  was  the  hot 
weather,  and  that  Aunty  Nan  gave  way  too 
easily.  But  Aunty  Nan  could  not  help  giving 
way  now;  she  was  very,  very  tired.  Even  her 
knitting  wearied  her.  She  would  sit  for  hours  in 
her  rocking  chair  with  the  gray  kitten  in  her  lap, 
looking  out  of  the  window  with  dreamy,  unseeing 
eyes.  She  talked  to  herself  a  good  deal,  generally 


124          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

about  little  Joscelyn.  Mrs.  William  told  Avonlea 
folk  that  Aunty  Nan  had  got  terribly  childish 
and  always  accompanied  the  remark  with  a  sigh 
that  intimated  how  much  she,  Mrs.  William, 
had  to  contend  with. 

Justice  must  be  done  to  Mrs.  William,  how- 
ever. She  was  not  unkind  to  Aunty  Nan;  on 
the  contrary,  she  was  very  kind  to  her  in  the 
letter.  Her  comfort  was  scrupulously  attended 
to,  and  Mrs.  William  had  the  grace  to  utter  none 
of  her  complaints  in  the  old  woman's  hearing. 
If  Aunty  Nan  felt  the  absence  of  the  spirit  she 
never  murmured  at  it. 

One  day,  when  the  Avonlea  slopes  were  golden- 
hued  with  the  ripened  harvest,  Aunty  Nan  did 
not  get  up.  She  complained  of  nothing  but 
great  weariness.  Mrs.  William  remarked  to  her 
husband  that  if  she  lay  in  bed  every  day  she  felt 
tired  there  wouldn't  be  much  done  at  Gull  Point 
Farm.  But  she  prepared  an  excellent  breakfast 
and  carried  it  patiently  up  to  Aunty  Nan,  who 
ate  little  of  it. 

After  dinner  Jordan  crept  up  by  way  of  the 
back  stairs  to  see  her.  Aunty  Nan  was  lying  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  pale  pink  climbing  roses 
that  nodded  about  the  window.  When  she  saw 
Jordan  she  smiled. 

"  Them  roses  put  me  so  much  in  mind  of  little 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  125 

Joscelyn,"  she  said  softly.  "  She  loved  them  so. 
If  I  could  only  see  her!  Oh,  Jordan,  if  I  could 
only  see  her!  Maria  says  it's  terrible  childish 
to  be  always  harping  on  that  string,  and  mebbe 
it  is.  But  —  oh,  Jordan,  there's  such  a  hunger 
in  my  heart  for  her,  such  a  hunger!  " 

Jordan  felt  a  queer  sensation  in  his  throat, 
and  twisted  his  ragged  straw  hat  about  in  his 
big  hands.  Just  then  a  vague  idea  which  had 
hovered  in  his  brain  all  day  crystallized  into 
decision.  But  all  he  said  was: 

"  I  hope  you'll  feel  better  soon,  Aunty  Nan." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Jordan,  dear,  I'll  be  better  soon," 
said  Aunty  Nan  with  her  own  sweet  smile.  "  '  The 
inhabitant  shall  not  say  I  am  sick,'  you  know. 
But  if  I  could  only  see  little  Joscelyn  first!  " 

Jordan  went  out  and  hurried  down-stairs. 
Billy  Morrison  was  in  the  stable,  when  Jordan 
stuck  his  head  over  the  half-door. 

"  Say,  can  I  have  the  rest  of  the  day  off,  sir? 
I  want  to  go  to  Kensington." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Billy  Morrison 
amiably.  "  May's  well  get  your  jaunting  done 
'fore  harvest  comes  on.  And  here,  Jord ;  take  this 
quarter  and  get  some  oranges  for  Aunty  Nan. 
Needn't  mention  it  to  headquarters." 

Billy  Morrison's  face  was  solemn,  but  Jordan 
winked  as  he  pocketed  the  money. 


126          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

11  If  I've  any  luck  I'll  bring  her  something  that'll 
do  her  more  good  than  the  oranges,"  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  hurried  off  to  the  pasture.  Jordan 
had  a  horse  of  his  own  now,  a  rather  bony  nag,  an- 
swering to  the  name  of  Dan.  Billy  Morrison  had 
agreed  to  pasture  the  animal  if  Jordan  used  him 
in  the  farm  work,  an  arrangement  scoffed  at  by 
Mrs.  William  in  no  measured  terms. 

Jordan  hitched  Dan  into  the  second  best  buggy, 
dressed  himself  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  drove 
off.  On  the  road  he  re-read  a  paragraph  he  had 
clipped  from  the  Charlottetown  Daily  Enterprise 
of  the  previous  day. 

"  Joscelyn  Burnett,  the  famous  contralto,  is 
spending  a  few  days  in  Kensington  on  her  re- 
turn from  her  Maritime  concert  tour.  She  is  the 
guest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bromley,  of  The  Beeches." 

"  Now  if  I  can  get  there  in  time,"  said  Jordan 
emphatically. 

Jordan  got  to  Kensington,  put  Dan  up  in  a 
livery  stable,  and  inquired  the  way  to  The 
Beeches.  He  felt  rather  nervous  when  he  found 
it,  it  was  such  a  stately,  imposing  place,  set  back 
from  the  street  in  an  emerald  green  seclusion  of 
beautiful  grounds. 

"  Fancy  me  stalking  up  to  that  front  door  and 
asking  for  Miss  Joscelyn  Burnett,"  grinned  Jor- 
dan sheepishly.  "  Mebbe  they'll  tell  me  to  go 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  127 

around  to  the  back  and  inquire  for  the  cook. 
But  you're  going  just  the  same,  Jordan  Sloane, 
and  no  skulking.  March  right  up  now.  Think 
of  Aunty  Nan  and  don't  let  style  down  you." 

A  pert-looking  maid  answered  Jordan's  ring, 
and  stared  at  him  when  he  asked  for  Miss 
Burnett. 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  see  her,"  she  said 
shortly,  scanning  his  country  cut  of  hair  and 
clothes  rather  superciliously.  "  What  is  your 
business  with  her?  " 

The  maid's  scorn  roused  Jordan's  "  dander," 
as  he  would  have  expressed  it. 

"I'll  tell  her  that  when  I  see  her,"  he  retorted 
coolly.  "  Just  you  tell  her  that  I've  a  message 
for  her  from  Aunty  Nan  Morrison  of  Gull  Point 
Farm,  Avonlea.  If  she  hain't  forgot,  that'll 
fetch  her.  You  might  as  well  hurry  up,  if  you 
please,  I've  not  overly  too  much  time." 

The  pert  maid  decided  to  be  civil  at  least  and 
invited  Jordan  to  enter.  But  she  left  him  stand- 
ing in  the  hall  while  she  went  in  search  of  Miss 
Burnett.  Jordan  gazed  about  him  in  amazement. 
He  had  never  been  in  any  place  like  this  before. 
The  hall  was  wonderful  enough,  and  through  the 
open  doors  on  either  hand  stretched  vistas  of 
lovely  rooms  that,  to  Jordan's  eyes,  looked  like 
those  of  a  palace. 


128          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Gee  whiz!  How  do  they  ever  move  around 
without  knocking  things  over?  " 

Then  Joscelyn  Burnett  came,  and  Jordan  for- 
got everything  else.  This  tall,  beautiful  woman, 
in  her  silken  draperies,  with  a  face  like  nothing 
Jordan  had  ever  seen,  or  even  dreamed  about,  — 
could  this  be  Aunty  Nan's  little  Joscelyn?  Jor- 
dan's round,  freckled  countenance  grew  crimson. 
He  felt  horribly  tongue-tied  and  embarrassed. 
What  could  he  say  to  her?  How  could  he  say  it? 

Joscelyn  Burnett  looked  at  him  with  her  large, 
dark  eyes,  —  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  had  suf- 
fered much,  and  learned  much,  and  won  through 
struggle  to  victory. 

"  You  have  come  from  Aunty  Nan?  "  sh.£  said. 
"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  from  her.  Is  she  well? 
Come  in  here  and  tell  me  all  about  her." 

She  turned  towards  one  of  those  fairy-like 
rooms,  but  Jordan  interrupted  her  desperately. 

"  Oh,  not  in  there,  ma'am.  I'd  never  get  it 
out.  Just  let  me  blunder  through  it  out  here 
someways.  Yes'm,  Aunty  Nan,  she  ain't  very 
well.  She's  —  she's  dying,  I  guess.  And  she's 
longing  for  you  night  and  day.  Seems  as  if  she 
couldn't  die  in  peace  without  seeing  you.  She 
wanted  to  get  to  Kensington  to  hear  you  sing, 
but  that  old  cat  of  a  Mrs.  William  —  begging 
your  pardon,  ma'am  —  wouldn't  let  her  come. 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  129 

She's  always  talking  of  you.  If  you  can  come  out 
to  Gull  Point  Farm  and  see  her,  I'll  be  most  awful 
obliged  to  you,  ma'am." 

Joscelyn  Burnett  looked  troubled.  She  had 
not  forgotten  Gull  Point  Farm,  nor  Aunty  Nan; 
but  for  years  the  memory  had  been  dim,  crowded 
into  the  background  of  consciousness  by  the 
more  exciting  events  of  her  busy  life.  Now  it 
came  back  with  a  rush.  She  recalled  it  all  ten- 
derly —  the  peace  and  beauty  and  love  of  that 
olden  summer,  and  sweet  Aunty  Nan,  so  very  wise 
in  the  lore  of  all  things  simple  and  good  and  true. 
For  the  moment  Joscelyn  Burnett  was  a  lonely, 
hungry-hearted  little  girl  again,  seeking  for  love 
and  finding  it  not,  until  Aunty  Nan  had  taken 
her  into  her  great  mother-heart  and  taught  her 
its  meaning. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said  perplexedly. 
"  If  you  had  come  sooner  —  I  leave  on  the  11.30 
train  to-night.  I  must  leave  by  then  or  I  shall  not 
reach  Montreal  in  time  to  fill  a  very  important 
engagement.  And  yet  I  must  see  Aunty  Nan,  too. 
I  have  been  careless  and  neglectful.  I  might  have 
gone  to  see  her  before.  How  can  we  manage 
it?" 

"  I'll  bring  you  back  to  Kensington  in  time  to 
catch  that  train,"  said  Jordan  eagerly.  "  There's 
nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  Aunty  Nan  —  me  and 


130          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Dan.  Yes,  sir,  you'll  get  back  in  time.  Just 
think  of  Aunty  Nan's  face  when  she  sees  you!  " 

"  I  will  come,"  said  the  great  singer,  gently. 

It  was  sunset  when  they  reached  Gull  Point 
Farm.  An  arc  of  warm  gold  was  over  the  spruces 
behind  the  house.  Mrs.  William  was  out  in  the 
barn-yard,  milking,  and  the  house  was  deserted, 
save  for  the  sleeping  baby  in  the  kitchen  and  the 
little  old  woman  with  the  watchful  eyes  in  the 
up-stairs  room. 

"  This  way,  ma'am,"  said  Jordan,  inwardly 
congratulating  himself  that  the  coast  was  clear. 
"  I'll  take  you  right  up  to  her  room." 

Up-stairs  Joscelyn  tapped  at  the  half-open 
door  and  went  in.  Before  it  closed  behind  her 
Jordan  heard  Aunty  Nan  say,  "  Joscelyn!  Little 
Joscelyn! "  in  a  tone  that  made  him  choke 
again.  He  stumbled  thankfully  down-stairs, 
to  be  pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  William  in  the 
kitchen, 

"  Jordan  Sloane,  who  was  that  stylish  woman 
you  drove  into  the  yard  with?  And  what  have 
you  done  with  her?  " 

"  That  was  Miss  Joscelyn  Burnett,"  said  Jor- 
dan, expanding  himself.  This  was  his  hour  of 
triumph  over  Mrs.  William.  "  I  went  to  Kensing- 
ton and  brung  her  out  to  see  Aunty  Nan.  She's 
up  with  her  now." 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  131 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  William  helplessly. 
"  And  me  in  my  milking  rig!  Jordan,  for  pity's 
sake  hold  the  baby  while  I  go  and  put  on  my 
black  silk.  You  might  have  given  a  body  some 
warning.  I  declare  I  don't  know  which  is  the 
greatest  idiot,  you  or  Aunty  Nan!  " 

As  Mrs.  William  flounced  out  of  the  kitchen 
Jordan  took  his  satisfaction  in  a  quiet  laugh. 

Up-stairs  in  the  little  room  was  a  great  glory 
of  sunset  and  gladness  of  human  hearts.  Joscelyn 
was  kneeling  by  the  bed,  with  her  arms  about 
Aunty  Nan;  and  Aunty  Nan,  with  her  face  all 
irradiated,  was  stroking  Joscelyn's  dark  hair 
fondly. 

"  O,  little  Joscelyn,"  she  murmured,  "  it  seems 
too  good  to  be  true.  It  seems  like  a  beautiful 
dream.  I  knew  you  the  minute  you  opened  the 
door,  my  dearie.  You  haven't  changed  a  bit. 
And  you're  a  famous  singer  now,  little  Joscelyn! 
I  always  knew  you  would  be.  Oh,  I  want  you  to 
sing  a  piece  for  me  —  just  one,  won't  you,  dearie? 
Sing  that  piece  people  like  to  hear  you  sing  best. 
I  forget  the  name,  but  I've  read  about  it  in  the 
papers.  Sing  it  for  me,  little  Joscelyn." 

And  Joscelyn,  standing  by  Aunty  Nan's  bed, 
in  the  sunset  light,  sang  the  song  she  had  sung  to 
many  a  brilliant  audience  on  many  a  noted  con- 
cert-platform —  sang  it  as  even  she  had  never 


132          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

sung  before,  while  Aunty  Nan  lay  and  listened 
beatifically,  and  down-stairs  even  Mrs.  William 
held  her  breath,  entranced  by  the  exquisite 
melody  that  floated  through  the  old  farmhouse. 

"  O,  little  Joscelyn!  "  breathed  Aunty  Nan  in 
rapture,  when  the  song  ended. 

Joscelyn  knelt  by  her  again  and  they  had  a 
long  talk  of  old  days.  One  by  one  they  recalled 
the  memories  of  that  vanished  summer.  The 
past  gave  up  its  tears  and  its  laughter.  Heart 
and  fancy  alike  went  roaming  through  the  ways 
of  the  long  ago.  Aunty  Nan  was  perfectly  happy. 
And  then  Joscelyn  told  her  all  the  story  of  her 
struggles  and  triumphs  since  they  had  parted. 

When  the  moonlight  began  to  creep  in  through 
the  low  window  Aunty  Nan  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  Joscelyn's  bowed  head. 

"  Little  Joscelyn,"  she  whispered,  "if  it  ain't 
asking  too  much,  I  want  you  to  sing  just  one  other 
piece.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were  here 
how  we  sung  hymns  in  the  parlour  every  Sunday 
night  and  my  favourite  always  was  '  The  Sands  of 
Time  are  Sinking  ? '  I  ain't  never  forgot  how 
you  used  to  sing  that,  and  I  want  to  hear  it  just 
once  again,  dearie.  Sing  it  for  me,  little  Joscelyn." 

Joscelyn  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Lifting 
back  the  curtain  she  stood  in  the  splendour  of  the 
moonlight,  and  sang  the  grand  old  hymn.  At 


LITTLE    JOSCELYN  133 

first  Aunty  Nan  beat  time  to  it  feebly  on  the 
counterpane;  but  when  Joscelyn  came  to  the 
verse,  "  With  mercy  and  with  judgment,"  she 
folded  her  hands  over  her  breast  and  smiled. 

When  the  hymn  ended  Joscelyn  came  over  to 
the  bed. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  say  good-bye  now,  Aunty 
Nan,"  she  said. 

Then  she  saw  that  Aunty  Nan  had  fallen  asleep. 
She  would  not  waken  her,  but  she  took  from 
her  breast  the  cluster  of  crimson  roses  she  wore  and 
slipped  them  gently  between  the  toil-worn  fingers. 

"  Good-bye,  dear,  sweet  mother-heart,"  she 
murmured. 

Down-stairs  she  met  Mrs.  William  splendid  in 
rustling  black  silk,  her  broad,  rubicund  face  smi- 
ling, overflowing  with  apologies  and  welcomes, 
which  Joscelyn  cut  short  coldly. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Morrison,  but  I  cannot 
possibly  stay  longer.  No,  thank  you,  I  don't 
care  for  any  refreshments.  Jordan  is  going  to 
take  me  back  to  Kensington  at  once.  I  came  out 
to  see  Aunty  Nan." 

"I'm  certain  she'd  be  delighted,"  said  Mrs. 
William  effusively.  "  She's  been  talking  about 
you  for  weeks." 

"  Yes,  it  has  made  her  very  happy,"  said 
Joscelyn  gravely.  "  And  it  has  made  me  happy, 


134          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

too.  I  love  Aunty  Nan,  Mrs.  Morrison,  and  I  owe 
her  much.  In  all  my  life  I  have  never  met  a 
woman  so  purely,  unselfishly  good  and  noble  and 
true." 

"  Fancy  now,"  said  Mrs.  William,  rather  over- 
come at  hearing  this  great  singer  pronounce  such 
an  encomium  on  quiet,  timid  old  Aunty  Nan. 

Jordan  drove  Joscelyn  back  to  Kensington; 
and  up-stairs  in  her  room  Aunty  Nan  slept,  with 
that  rapt  smile  on  her  face  and  Joscelyn's  red 
roses  in  her  hands.  Thus  it  was  that  Mrs.  William 
found  her,  going  in  the  next  morning  with  her 
breakfast.  The  sunlight  crept  over  the  pillow, 
lighting  up  the  sweet  old  face  and  silver  hair, 
and  stealing  downward  to  the  faded  red  roses 
on  her  breast.  Smiling  and  peaceful  and  happy 
lay  Aunty  Nan,  for  she  had  fallen  on  the  sleep 
that  knows  no  earthly  waking  while  little  Joscelyn 
sang. 


THE  WINNING  OF   LUCINDA 

THE  marriage  of  a  Penhallow  was  always  the 
signal  for  a  gathering  of  the  Penhallows.  From 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  they  would  come 
—  Penhallows  by  birth,  and  Penhallows  by  mar- 
riage and  Penhallows  by  ancestry.  East  Grafton 
was  the  ancient  habitat  of  the  race,  and  Penhallow 
Grange,  where  "  old  "  John  Penhallow  lived,  was 
a  Mecca  to  them. 

As  for  the  family  itself,  the  exact  kinship  of  all 
its  various  branches  and  ramifications  was  a  hard 
thing  to  define.  Old  Uncle  Julius  Penhallow  was 
looked  upon  as  a  veritable  wonder  because  he 
carried  it  all  in  his  head  and  could  tell  on  sight 
just  what  relation  any  one  Penhallow  was  to  any 
other  Penhallow.  The  rest  made  a  blind  guess  at 
it,  for  the  most  part,  and  the  younger  Penhallows 
let  it  go  at  loose  cousinship. 

In  this  instance  it  was  Alice  Penhallow,  daugh- 
ter of  "  young  "  John  Penhallow,  who  was  to  be 
135 


136          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

married.  Alice  was  a  nice  girl,  but  she  and  her 
wedding  only  pertain  to  this  story  in  so  far  as 
they  furnish  a  background  for  Lucinda;  hence 
nothing  more  need  be  said  of  her. 

On  the  afternoon  of  her  wedding  day  —  the 
Penhallows  held  to  the  good,  old-fashioned  custom 
of  evening  weddings  with  a  rousing  dance  after- 
wards —  Penhallow  Grange  was  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  guests  who  had  come  there  to  have 
tea  and  rest  themselves  before  going  down  to 
"  young  "  John's.  Many  of  them  had  driven 
fifty  miles.  In  the  big  autumnal  orchard  the 
younger  fry  foregathered  and  chatted  and  co- 
quetted. Up-stairs,  in  "  old  "  Mrs.  John's  bed- 
room, she  and  her  married  daughters  held  high 
conclave.  "  Old  "  John  had  established  himself 
with  his  sons  and  sons-in-law  in  the  parlour,  and 
the  three  daughters-in-law  were  making  themselves 
at  home  in  the  blue  sitting-room,  ear-deep  in 
harmless  family  gossip.  Lucinda  and  Romney 
Penhallow  were  also  there. 

Thin  Mrs.  Nathaniel  Penhallow  sat  in  a  rocking 
chair  and  toasted  her  toes  at  the  grate,  for  the 
brilliant  autumn  afternoon  was  slightly  chilly 
and  Lucinda,  as  usual,  had  the  window  open. 
She  and  plump  Mrs.  Frederick  Penhallow  did 
most  of  the  talking,  Mrs.  George  Penhallow 
being  rather  out  of  it  by  reason  of  her  newness. 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        137 

SKe  was  George  Penhallow's  second  wife,  married 
only  a  year.  Hence,  her  contributions  to  the  con- 
versation were  rather  spasmodic,  hurled  in,  as 
it  were,  by  dead  reckoning,  being  sometimes 
appropriate  and  sometimes  savouring  of  a  point 
of  view  not  strictly  Penhallowesque. 

Romney  Penhallow  was  sitting  in  a  corner, 
listening  to  the  chatter  of  the  women,  with  the  in- 
scrutable smile  that  always  vexed  Mrs.  Frederick. 
Mrs.  George  wondered  within  herself  what  he 
did  there  among  the  women.  She  also  wondered 
just  where  he  belonged  on  the  family  tree.  He 
was  not  one  of  the  uncles,  yet  he  could  not  be 
much  younger  than  George. 

"  Forty,  if  he  is  a  day,"  was  Mrs.  George's 
mental  dictum,  "  but  a  very  handsome  and  fas- 
cinating man.  I  never  saw  such  a  splendid  chin 
and  dimple." 

Lucinda,  with  bronze-coloured  hair  and  the 
whitest  of  skins,  defiant  of  merciless  sunlight  and 
revelling  in  the  crisp  air,  sat  on  the  sill  of  the  open 
window  behind  the  crimson  vine  leaves,  looking 
out  into  the  garden,  where  dahlias  flamed  and 
asters  broke  into  waves  of  purple  and  snow.  The 
ruddy  light  of  the  autumn  afternoon  gave  a  sheen 
to  the  waves  of  her  hair  and  brought  out  the  ex- 
ceeding purity  of  her  Greek  outlines. 

Mrs.  George  knew  who  Lucinda  was  —  a  cousin 


138          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

of  the  second  generation,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
thirty-five  years,  the  acknowledged  beauty  of 
the  whole  Penhallow  connection. 

She  was  one  of  those  rare  women  who  keep  their 
loveliness  unmarred  by  the  passage  of  years. 
She  had  ripened  and  matured  but  she  had  not 
grown  old.  The  older  Penhallows  were  still 
inclined,  from  sheer  force  of  habit,  to  look  upon 
her  as  a  girl,  and  the  younger  Penhallows  hailed 
her  as  one  of  themselves.  Yet  Lucinda  never 
aped  girlishness ;  good  taste  and  a  strong  sense  of 
humour  preserved  her  amid  many  temptations 
thereto.  She  was  simply  a  beautiful,  fully  de- 
veloped woman,  with  whom  Time  had  declared 
a  truce,  young  with  a  mellow  youth  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  years. 

Mrs.  George  liked  and  admired  Lucinda.  Now, 
when  Mrs.  George  liked  and  admired  any  person, 
it  was  a  matter  of  necessity  with  her  to  impart 
her  opinions  to  the  most  convenient  confidant. 
In  this  case  it  was  Romney  Penhallow  to  whom 
Mrs.  George  remarked  sweetly: 

"  Really,  don't  you  think  our  Lucinda  is  look- 
ing remarkably  well  this  fall?  " 

It  seemed  a  very  harmless,  inane,  well-meant 
question.  Poor  Mrs.  George  might  well  be  ex- 
cused for  feeling  bewildered  over  the  effect. 
Romney  gathered  his  long  legs  together,  stood 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        139 

up,  and  swept  the  unfortunate  speaker  a  crushing 
Penhallow  bow  of  state. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  disagree  with  the 
opinion  of  a  lady  —  especially  when  it  con- 
cerns another  lady,"  he  said,  as  he  left  the  blue 
room. 

Overcome  by  the  mordant  satire  in  his  tone, 
Mrs.  George  glanced  speechlessly  at  Lucinda. 
Behold,  Lucinda  had  squarely  turned  her  back 
on  the  party  and  was  gazing  out  into  the  garden, 
with  a  very  decided  flush  on  the  snowy  curves 
of  her  neck  and  cheek.  Then  Mrs.  George  looked 
at  her  sisters-in-law.  They  were  regarding  her 
with  the  tolerant  amusement  they  might  bestow 
on  a  blundering  child.  Mrs.  George  experienced 
that  subtle  prescience  whereby  it  is  given  us  to 
know  that  we  have  put  our  foot  in  it.  She  felt 
herself  turning  an  uncomfortable  brick-red.  What 
Penhallow  skeleton  had  she  unwittingly  jangled? 
Why,  oh,  why,  was  it  such  an  evident  breach  of 
the  proprieties  to  praise  Lucinda? 

Mrs.  George  was  devoutly  thankful  that  a 
summons  to  the  tea-table  rescued  her  from  her 
mire  of  embarrassment.  The  meal  was  spoiled 
for  her,  however;  the  mortifying  recollection  of 
her  mysterious  blunder  conspired  with  her  curi- 
osity to  banish  appetite.  As  soon  as  possible 
after  tea  she  decoyed  Mrs.  Frederick  out  into  the 


140          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

garden  and  in  the  dahlia  walk  solemnly  demanded 
the  reason  of  it  all. 

Mrs.  Frederick  indulged  in  a  laugh  which  put 
the  mettle  of  her  festal  brown  silk  seams  to  the 
test. 

"  My  dear  Cecilia,  it  was  so  amusing,"  she  said, 
a  little  patronizingly. 

"  But  why!  "  cried  Mrs.  George,  resenting  the 
patronage  and  the  mystery.  "What  was  so 
dreadful  in  what  I  said?  Or  so  funny?  And  who 
is  this  Romney  Penhallow  who  mustn't  be  spoken 
to?" 

"  Oh,  Romney  is  one  of  the  Charlottetown 
Penhallows,"  explained  Mrs.  Frederick.  "  He 
is  a  lawyer  there.  He  is  a  first  cousin  of  Lucinda's 
and  a  second  of  George's  —  or  is  he?  Oh,  bother! 
You  must  go  to  Uncle  John's  if  you  want  the 
genealogy.  I'm  in  a  chronic  muddle  concerning 
Penhallow  relationship.  And,  as  for  Romney, 
of  course  you  can  speak  to  him  about  anything 
you  like  except  Lucinda.  Oh,  you  innocent! 
To  ask  him  if  he  didn't  think  Lucinda  was  look- 
ing well!  And  right  before  her,  too!  Of  course 
he  thought  you  did  it  on  purpose  to  tease  him. 
That  was  what  made  him  so  savage  and  sarcastic." 

"  But  why  ?  "  persisted  Mrs.  George,  sticking 
tenaciously  to  her  point. 

"  Hasn't  George  told  you?  " 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        141 

"  No,"  said  George's  wife  in  mild  exasperation. 
"  George  has  spent  most  of  his  time  since  we  were 
married  telling  me  odd  things  about  the  Pen- 
hallows,  but  he  hasn't  got  to  that  yet,  evidently." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  it  is  our  family  romance. 
Lucinda  and  Romney  are  in  love  with  each  other. 
They  have  been  in  love  with  each  other  for  fifteen 
years  and  in  all  that  time  they  have  never  spoken 
to  each  other  once!  " 

"  Dear  me!  "  murmured  Mrs.  George,  feeling 
the  inadequacy  of  mere  language.  Was  this  a 
Penhallow  method  of  courtship?  "  But  why?  " 

"  They  had  a  quarrel  fifteen  years  ago,"  said 
Mrs.  Frederick  patiently.  "  Nobody  knows  how 
it  originated  or  anything  about  it  except  that 
Lucinda  was  in  the  wrong.  We  know  that,  be- 
cause Lucinda  herself  admitted  it  to  us  after- 
wards. But,  in  the  first  flush  of  her  rage,  she 
told  Romney  that  she  would  never  speak  to  him 
again  as  long  as  she  lived.  And  he  said  he  would 
never  speak  to  her  until  she  spoke  first  —  because, 
you  see,  as  she  was  in  the  wrong  she  ought  to 
make  the  first  advance.  And  they  never  have 
spoken.  Everybody  in  the  connection,  I  suppose, 
has  taken  turns  trying  to  reconcile  them,  but 
nobody  has  succeeded.  I  don't  believe  that 
Romney  has  ever  so  much  as  thought  of  any  other 
woman  in  his  whole  life,  and  certainly  Lucinda 


142          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

has  never  thought  of  any  other  man.  You  will 
notice  she  still  wears  Romney's  ring.  They're 
practically  engaged  still,  of  course.  And  Romney 
said  once  that  if  Lucinda  would  just  say  one  word, 
no  matter  what  it  was,  even  if  it  were  something 
insulting,  he  would  speak,  too,  and  beg  her 
pardon  for  his  share  in  the  quarrel  —  because 
then,  you  see,  he  would  not  be  breaking  his 
word.  He  hasn't  referred  to  the  matter  for  years, 
but  I  presume  that  he  is  of  the  same  mind  still. 
And  they  are  just  as  much  in  love  with  each 
other  as  they  ever  were.  He's  always  hanging 
about  where  she  is  —  when  other  people  are 
there,  too,  that  is.  He  avoids  her  like  a  plague 
when  she  is  alone.  That  was  why  he  was  stuck 
out  in  the  blue  room  with  us  to-day.  There 
doesn't  seem  to  be  a  particle  of  resentment  be- 
tween them.  If  Lucinda  would  only  speak! 
But  that  Lucinda  will  not  do." 

"  Don't  you  think  she  will  yet?  "  said  Mrs. 
George. 

Mrs.  Frederick  shook  her  crimped  head  sagely. 

"  Not  now.  The  whole  thing  has  hardened  too 
long.  Her  pride  will  never  let  her  speak.  We 
used  to  hope  she  would  be  tricked  into  it  by  for- 
getfulness  or  accident  —  we  used  to  lay  traps 
for  her  —  but  all  to  no  effect.  It  is  such  a  shame, 
too.  They  were  made  for  each  other.  Do  you 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        143 

know,  I  get  cross  when  I  begin  to  thrash  the  whole 
silly  affair  over  like  this.  Doesn't  it  sound  as  if 
we  were  talking  of  the  quarrel  of  two  school- 
children? Of  late  years  we  have  learned  that  it 
does  not  do  to  speak  of  Lucinda  to  Romney, 
even  in  the  most  commonplace  way.  He  seems 
to  resent  it." 

"  He  ought  to  speak,"  cried  Mrs.  George 
warmly.  "  Even  if  she  were  in  the  wrong  ten  times 
over,  he  ought  to  overlook  it  and  speak  first." 

"  But  he  won't.  And  she  won't.  You  never 
saw  two  such  determined  mortals.  They  get 
it  from  their  grandfather  on  the  mother's  side  — 
old  Absalom  Gordon.  There  is  no  such  stubborn- 
ness on  the  Penhallow  side.  His  obstinacy  was 
a  proverb,  my  dear  —  actually  a  proverb.  What 
ever  he  said  he  would  stick  to  if  the  skies  fell. 
He  was  a  terrible  old  man  to  swear,  too,"  added 
Mrs.  Frederick,  dropping  into  irrelevant  reminis- 
cence. "  He  spent  a  long  while  in  a  mining  camp 
in  his  younger  days  and  he  never  got  over  it  — 
the  habit  of  swearing,  I  mean.  It  would  have 
made  your  blood  run  cold,  my  dear,  to  have  heard 
him  go  on  at  times.  And  yet  he  was  a  real  good 
old  man  every  other  way.  He  couldn't  help  it 
someway.  He  tried  to,  but  he  used  to  say  that 
profanity  came  as  natural  to  him  as  breathing. 
It  used  to  mortify  his  family  terribly.  Fortu- 


144          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

nately,  none  of  them  took  after  him  in  that 
respect.  But  he's  dead  —  and  one  shouldn't 
speak  ill  of  the  dead.  I  must  go  and  get  Mattie 
Penhallow  to  do  my  hair.  I  would  burst  these 
sleeves  clean  out  if  I  tried  to  do  it  myself  and  I 
don't  want  to  dress  over  again.  You  won't  be 
likely  to  talk  to  Romney  about  Lucinda  again, 
my  dear  Cecilia?  " 

"  Fifteen  years!  "  murmured  Mrs.  George  help- 
lessly to  the  dahlias.  "  Engaged  for  fifteen  years 
and  never  speaking  to  each  other!  Dear  heart 
and  soul,  think  of  it!  Oh,  these  Penhallows!  " 

Meanwhile,  Lucinda,  serenely  unconscious  that 
her  love  story  was  being  mouthed  over  by  Mrs. 
Frederick  in  the  dahlia  garden,  was  dressing  for 
the  wedding.  Lucinda  still  enjoyed  dressing  for 
a  festivity,  since  the  mirror  still  dealt  gently  with 
her.  Moreover,  she  had  a  new  dress.  Now,  a 
new  dress  —  and  especially  one  as  nice  as  this  — 
was  a  rarity  with  Lucinda,  who  belonged  to  a 
branch  of  the  Penhallows  noted  for  being  chron- 
ically hard  up.  Indeed,  Lucinda  and  her  widowed 
mother  were  positively  poor,  and  hence  a  new  dress 
was  an  event  in  Lucinda's  existence.  An  uncle 
had  given  her  this  one  —  a  beautiful,  perishable 
thing,  such  as  Lucinda  would  never  have  dared 
to  choose  for  herself,  but  in  which  she  revelled 
with  feminine  delight. 


THE    WINNING    OF   LUCINDA        145 

It  was  of  pale  green  voile  —  a  colour  which 
brought  out  admirably  the  ruddy  gloss  of  her 
hair  and  the  clear  brilliance  of  her  skin.  When 
she  had  finished  dressing  she  looked  at  herself 
in  the  mirror  with  frank  delight.  Lucinda  was 
not  vain,  but  she  was  quite  well  aware  of  the  fact 
of  her  beauty  and  took  an  impersonal  pleasure 
in  it,  as  if  she  were  looking  at  some  finely  painted 
picture  by  a  master  hand. 

The  form  and  face  reflected  in  the  glass  satis- 
fied her.  The  puffs  and  draperies  of  the  green 
voile  displayed  to  perfection  the  full,  but  not 
over-full,  curves  of  her  fine  figure.  Lucinda  lifted 
her  arm  and  touched  a  red  rose  to  her  lips  with 
the  hand  upon  which  shone  the  frosty  glitter 
of  Romney's  diamond,  looking  at  the  graceful 
slope  of  her  shoulder  and  the  splendid  line  of 
chin  and  throat  with  critical  approval. 

She  noted,  too,  how  well  the  gown  became  her 
eyes,  bringing  out  all  the  deeper  colour  in  them. 
Lucinda  had  magnificent  eyes.  Once  Romney  had 
written  a  sonnet  to  them  in  which  he  compared 
their  colour  to  ripe  blueberries.  This  may  not 
sound  poetical  to  you  unless  you  know  or  remember 
just  what  the  tints  of  ripe  blueberries  are  —  dusky 
purple  in  some  lights,  clear  slate  in  others,  and 
yet  again  in  others  the  misty  hue  of  early  meadow 
violets. 


146          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  You  really  look  very  well,"  remarked  the 
real  Lucinda  to  the  mirrored  Lucinda.  "  No- 
body would  think  you  were  an  old  maid.  But 
you  are.  Alice  Penhallow,  who  is  to  be  married 
to-night,  was  a  child  of  five  when  you  thought  of 
being  married  fifteen  years  ago.  That  makes 
you  an  old  maid,  my  dear.  Well,  it  is  your  own 
fault,  and  it  will  continue  to  be  your  own  fault, 
you  stubborn  offshoot  of  a  stubborn  breed!  " 

She  flung  her  train  out  straight  and  pulled  on 
her  gloves. 

"  I  do  hope  I  won't  get  any  spots  on  this  dress 
to-night,"  she  reflected.  "  It  will  have  to  do  me 
for  a  gala  dress  for  a  year  at  least  —  and  I  have  a 
creepy  conviction  that  it  is  fearfully  spottable. 
Bless  Uncle  Mark's  good,  uncalculating  heart! 
How  I  would  have  detested  it  if  he  had  given  me 
something  sensible  and  useful  and  ugly  —  as 
Aunt  Emilia  would  have  done." 

They  all  went  to  "  young  "  John  Penhallow' s 
at  early  moonrise.  Lucinda  drove  over  the  two 
miles  of  hill  and  dale  with  a  youthful  second  cousin, 
by  name,  Carey  Penhallow.  The  wedding  was 
quite  a  brilliant  affair.  Lucinda  seemed  to  pervade 
the  social  atmosphere,  and  everywhere  she  went  a 
little  ripple  of  admiration  trailed  after  her  like 
a  wave.  She  was  undeniably  a  belle,  yet  she 
found  herself  feeling  faintly  bored  and  was  rather 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        147 

glad  than  otherwise  when  the  guests  began  to 
fray  off. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  losing  my  capacity  for  enjoy- 
ment," she  thought,  a  little  drearily.  "  Yes, 
I  must  be  growing  old.  That  is  what  it  means 
when  social  functions  begin  to  bore  you." 

It  was  that  unlucky  Mrs.  George  who  blun- 
dered again.  She  was  standing  on  the  veranda 
when  Carey  Penhallow  dashed  up. 

"  Tell  Lucinda  that  I  can't  take  her  back  to 
the  Grange.  I  have  to  drive  Mark  and  Cissy 
Penhallow  to  Bright  River  to  catch  the  two 
o'clock  express.  There  will  be  plenty  of  chances 
for  her  with  the  others." 

At  this  moment  George  Penhallow,  holding  his 
rearing  horse  with  difficulty,  shouted  for  his  wife. 
Mrs.  George,  all  in  a  flurry,  dashed  back  into 
the  still  crowded  hall.  Exactly  to  whom  she  gave 
her  message  was  never  known  to  any  of  the  Pen- 
hallows.  But  a  tall,  ruddy-haired  girl,  dressed 
in  pale  green  organdy  —  Anne  Shirley  from  Avon- 
lea —  told  Marilla  Cuthbert  and  Rachel  Lynde 
as  a  joke  the  next  morning  how  a  chubby  little 
woman  in  a  bright  pink  fascinator  had  clutched 
her  by  the  arm,  and  gasped  out: 

"  Carey  Penhallow  can't  take  you  —  he  says 
you're  to  look  out  for  someone  else,"  and  was 
gone  before  she  could  answer  or  turn  around. 


148          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Thus  it  was  that  Lucinda,  when  she  came  out 
to  the  veranda  step,  found  herself  unaccount- 
ably deserted.  All  the  Grange  Penhallows  were 
gone;  Lucinda  realized  this  after  a  few  moments 
of  bewildered  seeking,  and  she  understood  that 
if  she  were  to  get  to  the  Grange  that  night  she 
must  walk.  Plainly  there  was  nobody  to  take  her. 

Lucinda  was  angry.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  find 
yourself  forgotten  and  neglected.  It  is  still  less 
pleasant  to  walk  home  alone  along  a  country 
road,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  wearing  a 
pale  green  voile.  Lucinda  was  not  prepared  for 
such  a  walk.  She  had  nothing  on  her  feet  save 
thin-soled  shoes,  and  her  only  wraps  were  a 
flimsy  fascinator  and  a  short  coat. 

"  What  a  guy  I  shall  look,  stalking  home  alone 
in  this  rig,"  she  thought  crossly. 

There  was  no  help  for  it  unless  she  confessed 
her  plight  to  some  of  the  stranger  guests  and 
begged  a  drive  home.  Lucinda' s  pride  scorned 
such  a  request  and  the  admission  of  neglect  it 
involved.  No,  she  would  walk,  since  that  was 
all  there  was  to  it;  but  she  would  not  go  by  the 
main  road  to  be  stared  at  by  all  and  sundry 
who  might  pass  her.  There  was  a  short  cut  by 
way  of  a  lane  across  the  fields ;  she  knew  every 
inch  of  it  although  she  had  not  traversed  it  for 
years. 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        149 

She  gathered  up  the  green  voile  as  trimly  as 
possible,  slipped  around  the  house  in  the  kindly 
shadows,  picked  her  way  across  the  side  lawn, 
and  found  a  gate  which  opened  into  a  birch-bor- 
dered lane  where  the  frosted  trees  shone  with 
silvery-golden  radiance  in  the  moonlight.  Lu- 
cinda  flitted  down  the  lane,  growing  angrier  at 
every  step  as  the  realization  of  how  shamefully 
she  seemed  to  have  been  treated  came  home  to 
her.  She  believed  that  nobody  had  thought 
about  her  at  all,  which  was  tenfold  worse  than 
premeditated  neglect. 

As  she  came  to  the  gate  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
lane  a  man  who  was  leaning  over  it  started,  with 
a  quick  intake  of  his  breath,  which,  in  any  other 
man  than  Romney  Penhallow,  or  for  any  other 
woman  than  Lucinda  Penhallow,  would  have  been 
an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

Lucinda  recognized  him  with  a  great  deal  of 
annoyance  and  a  little  relief.  She  would  not  have 
to  walk  home  alone.  But  with  Romney  Penhal- 
low! Would  he  think  she  had  contrived  it  so 
purposely? 

Romney  silently  opened  the  gate  for  her, 
silently  latched  it  behind  her,  and  silently  fell 
into  step  beside  her.  Down  across  a  velvety 
sweep  of  field  they  went ;  the  air  was  frosty,  calm 
and  still;  over  the  world  lay  a  haze  of  moonshine 


150          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

and  mist  that  converted  East  Graf  ton's  prosaic 
hills  and  fields  into  a  shimmering  fairyland. 

At  first  Lucinda  felt  angrier  than  ever.  What 
a  ridiculous  situation!  How  the  Penhallows 
would  laugh  over  it! 

As  for  Romney,  he,  too,  was  angry  with  the 
trick  impish  chance  had  played  him.  He  liked 
being  the  butt  of  an  awkward  situation  as  little 
as  most  men;  and  certainly  to  be  obliged  to  walk 
home  over  moonlit  fields  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  with  the  woman  he  had  loved  and 
never  spoken  to  for  fifteen  years  was  the  irony 
of  fate  with  a  vengeance.  Would  she  think  he 
had  schemed  for  it?  And  how  the  deuce  did  she 
come  to  be  walking  home  from  the  wedding  at 
all? 

By  the  time  they  had  crossed  the  field  and 
reached  the  wild  cherry  lane  beyond  it,  Luanda's 
anger  was  mastered  by  her  saving  sense  of  humour. 
She  was  even  smiling  a  little  maliciously  under 
her  fascinator. 

The  lane  was  a  place  of  enchantment  —  a  long, 
moonlit  colonnade  adown  which  beguiling  wood 
nymphs  might  have  footed  it  featly.  The  moon- 
shine fell  through  the  arching  boughs  and  made 
a  mosaic  of  silver  light  and  clear-cut  shadow  for 
the  unfriendly  lovers  to  walk  in.  On  either  side 
was  the  hovering  gloom  of  the  woods,  and 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        151 

around  them  a  great  silence  unstirred  by  wind 
or  murmur. 

Midway  in  the  lane  Lucinda  was  attacked  by 
a  sentimental  recollection.  She  thought  of  the 
last  time  Romney  and  she  had  walked  home  to- 
gether through  this  very  lane,  from  a  party  at 
"  young  "  John's.  It  had  been  moonlight  then 
too,  and  —  Lucinda  checked  a  sigh  —  they  had 
walked  hand  in  hand.  Just  here,  by  the  big 
gray  beech,  he  had  stopped  her  and  kissed  her. 
Lucinda  wondered  if  he  were  thinking  of  it,  too, 
and  stole  a  look  at  him  from  under  the  lace  bor- 
der of  her  fascinator. 

But  he  was  striding  moodily  along  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  hat  pulled  down  over 
his  eyes,  passing  the  old  beech  without  a  glance 
at  it.  Lucinda  checked  another  sigh,  gathered 
up  an  escaped  flutter  of  voile,  and  marched  on. 

Past  the  lane  a  range  of  three  silvery  harvest 
fields  sloped  down  to  Peter  Penhallow's  brook  — 
a  wide,  shallow  stream  bridged  over  in  the  olden 
days  by  the  mossy  trunk  of  an  ancient  fallen 
tree.  When  Lucinda  and  Romney  arrived  at 
the  brook  they  gazed  at  the  brawling  water 
blankly.  Lucinda  remembered  that  she  must 
not  speak  to  Romney  just  in  time  to  prevent  an 
exclamation  of  dismay.  There  was  no  tree! 
There  was  no  bridge  of  any  kind  over  the  brook! 


152          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Here  was  a  predicament!  But  before  Lucinda 
could  do  more  than  despairingly  ask  herself 
what  was  to  be  done  now  Romney  answered  — 
not  in  words,  but  in  deeds.  He  coolly  picked 
Lucinda  up  in  his  arms,  as  if  she  had  been  a  child 
instead  of  a  full  grown  woman  of  no  mean  avoirdu- 
pois, and  began  to  wade  with  her  through  the 
water. 

Lucinda  gasped  helplessly.  She  could  not  for- 
bid him  and  she  was  so  choked  with  rage  over 
his  presumption  that  she  could  not  have  spoken 
in  any  case.  Then  came  the  catastrophe.  Rom- 
ney's  foot  slipped  on  a  treacherous  round  stone  — 
there  was  a  tremendous  splash  —  and  Romney 
and  Lucinda  Penhallow  were  sitting  down  in  the 
middle  of  Peter  Penhallow's  brook. 

Lucinda  was  the  first  to  regain  her  feet.  About 
her  clung  in  heart-breaking  limpness  the  ruined 
voile.  The  remembrance  of  all  her  wrongs  that 
night  rushed  over  her  soul,  and  her  eyes  blazed 
in  the  moonlight.  Lucinda  Penhallow  had  never 
been  so  angry  in  her  life. 

"  You  d — d  idiot!  "  she  said,  in  a  voice  that 
literally  shook  with  rage. 

Romney  meekly  scrambled  up  the  bank  after 
her. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry,  Lucinda,"  he  said,  striving 
with  uncertain  success  to  keep  a  suspicious  quiver 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        153 

of  laughter  out  of  his  tone.  "  It  was  wretchedly 
clumsy  of  me,  but  that  pebble  turned  right  under 
my  foot.  Please  forgive  me  —  for  that  —  and 
for  other  things." 

Lucinda  deigned  no  answer.  She  stood  on  a 
flat  stone  and  wrung  the  water  from  the  poor 
green  voile.  Romney  surveyed  her  apprehen- 
sively. 

"  Hurry,  Lucinda,"  he  entreated.  "  You  will 
catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"  I  never  take  cold,"  answered  Lucinda,  with 
chattering  teeth.  "  And  it  is  my  dress  I  am  think- 
ing of  —  was  thinking  of.  You  have  more  need 
to  hurry.  You  are  sopping  wet  yourself  and  you 
know  you  are  subject  to  colds.  There  —  come." 

Lucinda  picked  up  the  stringy  train,  which 
had  been  so  brave  and  buoyant  five  minutes  be- 
fore, and  started  up  the  field  at  a  brisk  rate. 
Romney  came  up  to  her  and  slipped  his  arm 
through  hers  in  the  old  way.  For  a  time  they 
walked  along  in  silence.  Then  Lucinda  began 
to  shake  with  inward  laughter.  She  laughed  si- 
lently for  the  whole  length  of  the  field ;  and  at  the 
line  fence  between  Peter  Penhallow's  land  and  the 
Grange  acres  she  paused,  threw  back  the  fas- 
cinator from  her  face,  and  looked  at  Romney 
defiantly. 

"You    are    thinking    of  —  that,11    she    cried, 


154          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  and  I  am  thinking  of  it.  And  we  will  go  on, 
thinking  of  it  at  intervals  for  the  rest  of  our  lives. 
But  if  you  ever  mention  it  to  me  I'll  never  for- 
give you,  Romney  Penhallow!  " 

"  I  never  will,"  Romney  promised.  There 
was  more  than  a  suspicion  of  laughter  in  his 
voice  this  time,  but  Lucinda  did  not  choose  to 
resent  it.  She  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
reached  the  Grange  gate.  Then  she  faced  him 
solemnly. 

"  It  was  a  case  of  atavism,"  she  said.  "  Old 
Grandfather  Gordon  was  to  blame  for  it." 

At  the  Grange  almost  everybody  was  in  bed. 
What  with  the  guests  straggling  home  at  intervals 
and  hurrying  sleepily  off  to  their  rooms,  nobody 
had  missed  Lucinda,  each  set  supposing  she  was 
with  some  other  set.  Mrs.  Frederick,  Mrs. 
Nathaniel  and  Mrs.  George  alone  were  up.  The 
perennially  chilly  Mrs.  Nathaniel  had  kindled  a 
fire  of  chips  in  the  blue  room  grate  to  warm  her 
feet  before  retiring,  and  the  three  women  were 
discussing  the  wedding  in  subdued  tones  when 
the  door  opened  and  the  stately  form  of  Lucinda, 
stately  even  in  the  draggled  voile,  appeared,  with 
the  damp  Romney  behind  her. 

"  Lucinda  Penhallow!  "  gasped  they,  one  and 
all 

"  I  was  left  to  walk  home,"  said  Lucinda  coolly. 


THE    WINNING    OF    LUCINDA        155 

"  So  Romney  and  I  came  across  the  fields.  There 
was  no  bridge  over  the  brook,  and  when  he  was 
carrying  me  over  he  slipped  and  we  fell  in.  That 
is  all.  No,  Cecilia,  I  never  take  cold,  so  don't 
worry.  Yes,  my  dress  is  ruined,  but  that  is  of 
no  consequence.  No,  thank  you,  Cecilia,  I  do 
not  care  for  a  hot  drink.  Romney,  do  go  and  take 
off  those  wet  clothes  of  yours  immediately.  No, 
Cecilia,  I  will  not  take  a  hot  footbath.  I  am  going 
straight  to  bed.  Good  night." 

When  the  door  closed  on  the  pair  the  three 
sisters-in-law  stared  at  each  other.  Mrs.  Freder- 
ick, feeling  herself  incapable  of  expressing  her 
sensations  originally,  took  refuge  in  a  quotation: 

" '  Do  I  sleep,  do  I  dream,  do  I  wonder  and  doubt  ? 
Is  things  what  they  seem,  or  is  visions  about  ?  '  " 

"  There  will  be  another  Penhallow  wedding 
soon,"  said  Mrs.  Nathaniel,  with  a  long  breath. 
"  Lucinda  has  spoken  to  Romney  at  last." 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  suppose  she  said  to  him?  " 
cried  Mrs.  George. 

"My  dear  Cecilia,"  said  Mrs.  Frederick,  "we 
shall  never  know." 

They  never  did  know. 


VI 

OLD  MAN  SHAW'S  GIRL 

"DAY  after  to-morrow  —  day  after  to-mor- 
row," said  Old  Man  Shaw,  rubbing  his  long  slen- 
der hands  together  gleefully.  "  I  have  to  keep 
saying  it  over  and  over,  so  as  to  really  believe  it. 
It  seems  far  too  good  to  be  true  that  I'm  to  have 
Blossom  again.  And  everything  is  ready.  Yes, 
I  think  everything  is  ready,  except  a  bit  of  cooking. 
And  won't  this  orchard  be  a  surprise  to  her!  I'm 
just  going  to  bring  her  out  here  as  soon  as  I  can, 
never  saying  a  word.  I'll  fetch  her  through  the 
spruce  lane,  and  when  we  come  to  the  end  of  the 
path  I'll  step  back  casual-like,  and  let  her  go  out 
from  under  the  trees  alone,  never  suspecting.  It'll 
be  worth  ten  times  the  trouble  to  see  her  big, 
brown  eyes  open  wide  and  hear  her  say,  '  Oh, 
daddy!  Why,  daddy!'" 

He  rubbed  his  hands  again  and  laughed  softly 
to  himself.  He  was  a  tall,  bent  old  man,  whose 
hair  was  snow  white,  but  whose  face  was  fresh 
156 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  157 

and  rosy.  His  eyes  were  a  boy's  eyes,  large,  blue 
and  merry,  and  his  mouth  had  never  got  over  a 
youthful  trick  of  smiling  at  any  provocation — • 
and,  oft-times,  at  no  provocation  at  all. 

To  be  sure,  White  Sands  people  would  not  have 
given  you  the  most  favourable  opinion  in  the  world 
of  Old  Man  Shaw.  First  and  foremost,  they 
would  have  told  you  that  he  was  "  shiftless," 
and  had  let  his  bit  of  a  farm  run  out  while  he  pot- 
tered with  flowers  and  bugs,  or  rambled  aimlessly 
about  in  the  woods,  or  read  books  along  the  shore. 
Perhaps  it  was  true ;  but  the  old  farm  yielded  him 
a  living,  and  further  than  that  Old  Man  Shaw  had 
no  ambition.  He  was  as  blithe  as  a  pilgrim  on  a 
pathway  climbing  to  the  west.  He  had  learned 
the  rare  secret  that  you  must  take  happiness  when 
you  find  it  —  that  there  is  no  use  in  marking  the 
place  and  coming  back  to  it  at  a  more  convenient 
season,  because  it  will  not  be  there  then.  And 
it  is  very  easy  to  be  happy  if  you  know,  as  Old 
Man  Shaw  most  thoroughly  knew,  how  to  find 
pleasure  in  little  things.  He  enjoyed  life,  he  had 
always  enjoyed  life  and  helped  others  to  enjoy 
it;  consequently  his  life  was  a  success,  whatever 
White  Sands  people  might  think  of  it.  What  if  he 
had  not  "  improved  "  his  farm?  There  are  some 
people  to  whom  life  will  never  be  anything  more 
than  a  kitchen  garden;  and  there  are  others  to 


158          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

whom  it  will  always  be  a  royal  palace  with  domes 
and  minarets  of  rainbow  fancy. 

The  orchard  of  which  he  was  so  proud  was  as 
yet  little  more  than  the  substance  of  things  hoped 
for  —  a  nourishing  plantation  of  young  trees  which 
would  amount  to  something  later  on.  Old  Man 
Shaw's  house  was  on  the  crest  of  a  bare,  sunny 
hill,  with  a  few  staunch  old  firs  and  spruces  behind 
it  —  the  only  trees  that  could  resist  the  full  sweep 
of  the  winds  that  blew  bitterly  up  from  the  sea  at 
times.  Fruit  trees  would  never  grow  near  it, 
and  this  had  been  a  great  grief  to  Sara. 

"  Oh,  daddy,  if  we  could  just  have  an  orchard!  " 
she  had  been  wont  to  say  wistfully,  when  other 
farmhouses  in  White  Sands  were  smothered 
whitely  in  apple  bloom.  And  when  she  had  gone 
away,  and  her  father  had  nothing  to  look  forward 
to  save  her  return,  he  was  determined  she  should 
find  an  orchard  when  she  came  back. 

Over  the  southward  hill,  warmly  sheltered  by 
spruce  woods  and  sloping  to  the  sunshine,  was  a 
little  field,  so  fertile  that  all  the  slack  management 
of  a  life- time  had  not  availed  to  exhaust  it.  Here 
Old  Man  Shaw  set  out  his  orchard  and  saw  it 
flourish,  watching  and  tending  it  until  he  came  to 
know  each  tree  as  a  child  and  loved  it.  His  neigh- 
bours laughed  at  him,  and  said  that  the  fruit  of 
an  orchard  so  far  away  from  the  house  would  all 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  159 

be  stolen.  But  as  yet  there  was  no  fruit,  and 
when  the  time  came  for  bearing  there  would  be 
enough  and  to  spare. 

"  Blossom  and  me'll  get  all  we  want,  and  the 
boys  can  have  the  rest,  if  they  want  'em  worse'n 
they  want  a  good  conscience,"  said  that  unworldly, 
unbusiness-like  Old  Man  Shaw. 

On  his  way  back  home  from  his  darling  orchard 
he  found  a  rare  fern  in  the  woods  and  dug  it  up 
for  Sara  —  she  had  loved  ferns.  He  planted  it  at 
the  shady,  sheltered  side  of  the  house  and  then 
sat  down  on  the  old  bench  by  the  garden  gate  to 
read  her  last  letter  —  the  letter  that  was  only  a 
note,  because  she  was  coming  home  soon.  He 
knew  every  word  of  it  by  heart,  but  that  did  not 
spoil  the  pleasure  of  re-reading  it  every  half -hour. 

Old  Man  Shaw  had  not  married  until  late  in  life, 
and  had,  so  White  Sands  people  said,  selected  a 
wife  with  his  usual  judgment  —  which,  being  in- 
terpreted, meant  no  judgment  at  all;  otherwise, 
he  would  never  have  married  Sara  Glover,  a  mere 
slip  of  a  girl,  with  big  brown  eyes  like  a  frightened 
wood  creature's,  and  the  delicate,  fleeting  bloom 
of  a  spring  Mayflower. 

"  The  last  woman  in  the  world  for  a  farmer's 
wife  —  no  strength  or  get-up  about  her." 

Neither  could  White  Sands  folk  understand 
what  on  earth  Sara  Glover  had  married  him  for. 


160          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Well,  the  fool  crop  was  the  only  one  that  never 
failed." 

Old  Man  Shaw  —  he  was  Old  Man  Shaw  even 
then,  although  he  was  only  forty  —  and  his  girl 
bride  had  troubled  themselves  not  at  all  about 
White  Sands  opinions.  They  had  one  year  of  per- 
fect happiness,  which  is  always  worth  living  for, 
even  if  the  rest  of  life  be  a  dreary  pilgrimage,  and 
then  Old  Man  Shaw  found  himself  alone  again, 
except  for  little  Blossom.  She  was  christened 
Sara,  after  her  dead  mother,  but  she  was  always 
Blossom  to  her  father  —  the  precious  little  blos- 
som whose  plucking  had  cost  the  mother  her 
life. 

Sara  Glover's  people,  especially  a  wealthy  aunt 
in  Montreal,  had  wanted  to  take  the  child,  but 
Old  Man  Shaw  grew  almost  fierce  over  the  sug- 
gestion. He  would  give  his  baby  to  no  one.  A 
woman  was  hired  to  look  after  the  house,  but  it 
was  the  father  who  cared  for  the  baby  in  the  main. 
He  was  as  tender  and  faithful  and  deft  as  a  woman. 
Sara  never  missed  a  mother's  care,  and  she  grew 
up  into  a  creature  of  life  and  light  and  beauty,  a 
constant  delight  to  all  who  knew  her.  She  had  a 
way  of  embroidering  life  with  stars.  She  was  dow- 
ered with  all  the  charming  characteristics  of  both 
parents,  with  a  resilient  vitality  and  activity 
which  had  pertained  to  neither  of  them.  When 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  161 

she  was  ten  years  old  she  had  packed  all  hirelings 
off,  and  kept  house  for  her  father  for  six  delightful 
years  —  years  in  which  they  were  father  and 
daughter,  brother  and  sister,  and  "  chums."  Sara 
never  went  to  school,  but  her  father  saw  to  her 
education  after  a  fashion  of  his  own.  When  their 
work  was  done  they  lived  in  the  woods  and  fields, 
in  the  little  garden  they  had  made  on  the  shel- 
tered side  of  the  house,  or  on  the  shore,  where 
sunshine  and  storm  were  to  them  equally  lovely 
and  beloved.  Never  was  comradeship  more  per- 
fect or  more  wholly  satisfactory. 

"  Just  wrapped  up  in  each  other,"  said  White 
Sands  folk,  half-enviously,  half-disapprovingly. 

When  Sara  was  sixteen  Mrs.  Adair,  the  wealthy 
aunt  aforesaid,  pounced  down  on  White  Sands  in 
a  glamour  of  fashion  and  culture  and  outer  worldli- 
ness.  She  bombarded  Old  Man  Shaw  with  such 
arguments  that  he  had  to  succumb.  It  was  a 
shame  that  a  girl  like  Sara  should  grow  up  in  a 
place  like  White  Sands,  "  with  no  advantages  and 
no  education,"  said  Mrs.  Adair  scornfully,  not 
understanding  that  wisdom  and  knowledge  are  two 
entirely  different  things. 

"  At  least  let  me  give  my  dear  sister's  child 
what  I  would  have  given  my  own  daughter  if  I 
had  had  one,"  she  pleaded  tearfully.  "  Let  me 
take  her  with  me  and  send  her  to  a  good  school  for 


162          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

a  few  years.  Then,  if  she  wishes,  she  may  come 
back  to  you,  of  course." 

Privately,  Mrs.  Adair  did  not  for  a  moment  be- 
lieve that  Sara  would  want  to  come  back  to  White 
Sands,  and  her  queer  old  father,  after  three  years 
of  the  life  she  would  give  her. 

Old  Man  Shaw  yielded,  influenced  thereto  not 
at  all  by  Mrs.  Adair's  readily  flowing  tears,  but 
greatly  by  his  conviction  that  justice  to  Sara  de- 
manded it.  Sara  herself  did  not  want  to  go ;  she 
protested  and  pleaded;  b"_t  her  father,  having 
become  convinced  that  it  was  best  for  her  to  go, 
was  inexorable.  Everything,  even  her  own  feel- 
ings, must  give  way  to  that.  But  she  was  to  come 
back  to  him  without  let  or  hindrance  when  her 
"  schooling  "  was  done.  It  was  only  on  having  this 
most  clearly  understood  that  Sara  would  consent 
to  go  at  all.  Her  last  words,  called  back  to  her 
father  through  her  tears  as  she  and  her  aunt  drove 
down  the  lane,  were, 

"  I'll  be  back,  daddy.  In  three  years  I'll  be 
back.  Don't  cry,  but  just  look  forward  to  that." 

He  had  looked  forward  to  it  through  the  three 
long,  lonely  years  that  followed,  in  all  of  which 
he  never  saw  his  darling.  Half  a  continent  was 
between  them  and  Mrs.  Adair  had  vetoed  vaca- 
tion visits,  under  some  specious  pretence.  But 
every  week  brought  its  letter  from  Sara.  Old  Man 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  163 

Shaw  had  every  one  of  them,  tied  up  with  one  of 
her  old  blue  hair  ribbons,  and  kept  in  her  mother's 
little  rosewood  work-box  in  the  parlour.  He  spent 
every  Sunday  afternoon  re-reading  them,  with  her 
photograph  before  him.  He  lived  alone,  refusing 
to  be  pestered  with  kind  help,  but  he  kept  the 
house  in  beautiful  order. 

"  A  better  housekeeper  than  farmer,"  said 
White  Sands  people.  He  would  have  nothing  al- 
tered. When  Sara  came  back  she  was  not  to  be 
hurt  by  changes.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that 
she  might  be  changed  herself. 

And  now  those  three  interminable  years  were 
gone,  and  Sara  was  coming  home.  She  wrote  him 
nothing  of  her  aunt's  pleadings  and  reproaches 
and  ready,  futile  tears;  she  wrote  only  that  she 
would  graduate  in  June  and  start  for  home  a  week 
later.  Thenceforth  Old  Man  Shaw  went  about  in 
a  state  of  beatitude,  making  ready  for  her  home- 
coming. As  he  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  sunshine, 
with  the  blue  sea  sparkling  and  crinkling  down  at 
the  foot  of  the  green  slope,  he  reflected  with  satis- 
faction that  all  was  in  perfect  order.  There  was 
nothing  left  to  do  scive  count  the  hours  until  that 
beautiful,  longed-for  day  after  to-morrow.  He 
gave  himself  over  to  a  reverie,  as  sweet  as  a  day- 
dream in  a  haunted  valley. 

The  red  roses  were  out  in  bloom.    Sara  had  al- 


164          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

ways  loved  those  red  roses  —  they  were  as  vivid 
as  herself,  with  all  her  own  fulness  of  life  and  joy 
of  living.  And,  besides  these,  a  miracle  had  hap- 
pened in  Old  Man  Shaw's  garden.  In  one  corner 
was  a  rose-bush  which  had  never  bloomed,  despite 
all  the  coaxing  they  had  given  it  —  "  the  sulky 
rose-bush,"  Sara  had  been  wont  to  call  it.  Lo! 
this  summer  had  flung  the  hoarded  sweetness  of 
years  into  plentiful  white  blossoms,  like  shallow 
ivory  cups  with  a  haunting,  spicy  fragrance.  It 
was  in  honour  of  Sara's  home-coming  —  so  Old 
Man  Shaw  liked  to  fancy.  All  things,  even  the 
sulky  rose-bush,  knew  she  was  coming  back,  and 
were  making  glad  because  of  it. 

He  was  gloating  over  Sara's  letter  when  Mrs. 
Peter  Blewett  came.  She  told  him  she  had  run 
up  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on,  and  if  he  wanted 
anything  seen  to  before  Sara  came. 

Old  Man  Shaw  shook  his  head. 

11  No'm,  thank  you,  ma'am.  Everything  is  at- 
tended to.  I  couldn't  let  anyone  else  prepare  for 
Blossom.  Only  to  think,  ma'am,  she'll  be  home 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  I'm  just  filled  clear 
through,  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  with  joy  to  think 
of  having  my  little  Blossom  at  home  again." 

Mrs.  Blewett  smiled  sourly.  When  Mrs. 
Blewett  smiled  it  foretokened  trouble,  and  wise 
people  had  learned  to  have  sudden  business  else- 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  165 

where  before  the  smile  could  be  translated  into 
words.  But  Old  Alan  Shaw  had  never  learned 
to  be  wise  where  Mrs.  Blewett  was  concerned, 
although  she  had  been  his  nearest  neighbour  for 
years,  and  had  pestered  his  life  out  with  advice 
and  "  neighbourly  turns." 

Mrs.  Blewett  was  one  with  whom  life  had  gone 
awry.  The  effect  on  her  was  to  render  happiness 
in  other  people  a  personal  insult.  She  resented 
Old  Man  Shaw's  beaming  delight  in  his  daughter's 
return,  and  she  "  considered  it  her  duty  "  to  rub 
the  bloom  off  straightway. 

11  Do  you  think  Sary'll  be  contented  in  White 
Sands  now?  "  she  asked. 

Old  Man  Shaw  looked  slightly  bewildered. 

"  Of  course  she'll  be  contented,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  Isn't  it  her  home?  And  ain't  I  here  ?  " 

Mrs.  Blewett  smiled  again,  with  double  dis- 
tilled contempt  for  such  simplicity. 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  you're  so  sure  of  it,  I 
suppose.  If  'twas  my  daughter  that  was  coming 
back  to  White  Sands,  after  three  years  of  fashion- 
able life  among  rich,  stylish  folks  and  at  a  swell 
school,  I  wouldn't  have  a  minute's  peace  of  mind. 
I'd  know  perfectly  well  that  she'd  look  down  on 
everything  here,  and  be  discontented  and  miser- 
able." 

"  Your  daughter  might,"  said  Old  Man  Shaw, 


166          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

with  more  sarcasm  than  he  had  supposed  he  had 
possessed,  "  but  Blossom  won't." 

Mrs.  Blewett  shrugged  her  sharp  shoulders. 

"  Maybe  not.  It's  to  be  hoped  not,  for  both 
your  sakes,  I'm  sure.  But  I'd  be  worried  if  'twas 
me.  Sary's  been  living  among  fine  folks,  and 
having  a  gay,  exciting  time,  and  it  stands  to  reason 
she'll  think  White  Sands  fearful  lonesome  and  dull. 
Look  at  Lauretta  Bradley.  She  was  up  in  Boston 
for  just  a  month  last  winter  and  she's  never  been 
able  to  endure  White  Sands  since." 

"  Lauretta  Bradley  and  Sara  Shaw  are  two 
different  people,"  said  Sara's  father,  trying  to 
smile. 

"  And  your  house,  too,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blewett 
ruthlessly.  "  It's  such  a  queer,  little,  old  place. 
What'll  she  think  of  it  after  her  aunt's?  I've 
heard  tell  Mrs.  Adair  lives  in  a  perfect  palace. 
I'll  just  warn  you  kindly  that  Sary'll  probably 
look  down  on  you,  and  you  might  as  well  be  pre- 
pared for  it.  Of  course,  I  suppose  she  kind  of 
thinks  she  has  to  come  back,  seeing  she  promised 
you  so  solemn  she  would.  But  I'm  certain  she 
doesn't  want  to,  and  I  don't  blame  her  either." 

Even  Mrs.  Blewett  had  to  stop  for  breath,  and 
Old  Man  Shaw  found  his  opportunity.  He  had 
listened,  dazed  and  shrinking,  as  if  she  were  deal- 
ing him  physical  blows,  but  now  a  swift  change 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  167 

swept  over  him.  His  blue  eyes  flashed  ominously, 
straight  into  Mrs.  Blewett's  straggling,  ferrety 
gray  orbs. 

"  If  you've  said  your  say,  Martha  Blewett,  you 
can  go,"  he  said  passionately.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
listen  to  another  such  word.  Take  yourself  out 
of  my  sight,  and  your  malicious  tongue  out  of 
my  hearing!  " 

Mrs.  Blewett  went,  too  dumfounded  by  such 
an  unheard-of  outburst  in  mild  Old  Man  Shaw 
to  say  a  word  of  defence  or  attack.  When  she  had 
gone  Old  Man  Shaw,  the  fire  all  faded  from  his 
eyes,  sank  bank  on  his  bench.  His  delight  was 
dead;  his  heart  was  full  of  pain  and  bitterness. 
Martha  Blewett  was  a  warped  and  ill-natured 
woman,  but  he  feared  there  was  altogether  too 
much  truth  in  what  she  said.  Why  had  he  never 
thought  of  it  before?  Of  course  White  Sands 
would  seem  dull  and  lonely  to  Blossom ;  of  course 
the  little  gray  house  where  she  was  born  would 
seem  a  poor  abode  after  the  splendours  of  her 
aunt's  home.  Old  Man  Shaw  walked  through  his 
garden  and  looked  at  everything  with  new  eyes. 
How  poor  and  simple  everything  was!  How  sag- 
ging and  weather-beaten  the  old  house !  He  went 
in,  and  up-stairs  to  Sara's  room.  It  was  neat  and 
clean,  just  as  she  had  left  it  three  years  ago.  But 
it  was  small  and  dark ;  the  ceiling  was  discoloured, 


168          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

the  furniture  old-fashioned  and  shabby;  she 
would  think  it  a  poor,  mean  place.  Even  the 
orchard  over  the  hill  brought  hLu  no  comfort  now. 
Blossom  would  not  care  for  orchards.  She  would 
be  ashamed  of  her  stupid  old  father  and  the  barren 
farm.  She  would  hate  White  Sands,  and  chafe 
at  the  dull  existence,  and  look  down  on  everything 
that  went  to  make  up  his  uneventful  life. 

Old  Man  Shaw  was  unhappy  enough  that  night 
to  have  satisfied  even  Mrs.  Blewett  had  she  known. 
He  saw  himself  as  he  thought  White  Sands  folk 
must  see  him  —  a  poor,  shiftless,  foolish  old  man, 
who  had  only  one  thing  in  the  world  worth  while, 
his  little  girl,  and  had  not  been  of  enough  account 
to  keep  her. 

"  Oh,  Blossom,  Blossom!  "  he  said,  and  when 
he  spoke  her  name  it  sounded  as  if  he  spoke  the 
name  of  one  dead. 

After  a  little  the  worst  sting  passed  away.  He 
refused  to  believe  long  that  Blossom  would  be 
ashamed  of  him;  he  knew  she  would  not.  Three 
years  could  not  so  alter  her  loyal  nature  —  no, 
nor  ten  times  three  years.  But  she  would  be 
changed  —  she  would  have  grown  away  from  him 
in  those  three  busy,  brilliant  years.  His  com- 
panionship could  no  longer  satisfy  her.  How 
simple  and  childish  he  had  been  to  expect  it !  She 
would  be  sweet  and  kind  —  Blossom  could  never 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  169 

be  anything  else.  She  would  not  show  open  dis- 
content or  dissatisfaction;  she  would  not  be  like 
Lauretta  Bradley;  but  it  would  be  there,  and  he 
would  divine  it,  and  it  would  break  his  heart. 
Mrs.  Blewett  was  right.  When  he  had  given 
Blossom  up  he  should  not  have  made  a  half- 
hearted thing  of  his  sacrifice  —  he  should  not 
have  bound  her  to  come  back  to  him. 

He  walked  about  in  his  little  garden  until  late 
at  night,  under  the  stars,  with  the  sea  crooning 
and  calling  to  him  down  the  slope.  When  he 
finally  went  to  bed  he  did  not  sleep,  but  lay  until 
morning  with  tear-wet  eyes  and  despair  in  his 
heart.  All  the  forenoon  he  went  about  his  usual 
daily  work  absently.  Frequently  he  fell  into  long 
reveries,  standing  motionless  wherever  he  hap- 
pened to  be,  and  looking  dully  before  him.  Only 
once  did  he  show  any  animation.  When  he  saw 
Mrs.  Blewett  coming  up  the  lane  he  darted  into 
the  house,  locked  the  door,  and  listened  to  her 
knocking  in  grim  silence.  After  she  had  gone  he 
went  out,  and  found  a  plate  of  fresh  doughnuts, 
covered  with  a  napkin,  placed  on  the  bench  at  the 
door.  Mrs.  Blewett  meant  to  indicate  thus  that 
she  bore  him  no  malice  for  her  curt  dismissal  the 
day  before ;  possibly  her  conscience  gave  her  some 
twinges  also.  But  her  doughnuts  could  not  min- 
ister to  the  mind  she  had  diseased.  Old  Man  Shaw 


170          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

took  them  up,  carried  them  to  the  pig-pen,  and 
fed  them  to  the  pigs.  It  was  the  first  spiteful 
thing  he  had  done  in  his  life,  and  he  felt  a  most 
immoral  satisfaction  in  it. 

In  mid-afternoon  he  went  out  to  the  garden, 
finding  the  new  loneliness  of  the  little  house  un- 
bearable. The  old  bench  was  warm  in  the  sun- 
shine. Old  Man  Shaw  sat  down  with  a  long  sigh, 
and  dropped  his  white  head  wearily  on  his  breast. 
He  had  decided  what  he  must  do.  He  would  tell 
Blossom  that  she  might  go  back  to  her  aunt  and 
never  mind  about  him  —  he  would  do  very  well 
by  himself  and  he  did  not  blame  her  in  the  least. 

He  was  still  sitting  broodingly  there  when  a  girl 
came  up  the  lane.  She  was  tall  and  straight,  and 
walked  with  a  kind  of  uplift  in  her  motion,  as  if 
it  would  be  rather  easier  to  fly  than  not.  She  was 
dark,  with  a  rich  dusky  sort  of  darkness,  suggest- 
ive of  the  bloom  on  purple  plums,  or  the  glow  of 
deep  red  apples  among  bronze  leaves.  Her  big 
brown  eyes  lingered  on  everything  in  sight,  and 
little  gurgles  of  sound  now  and  again  came  through 
her  parted  lips,  as  if  inarticulate  joy  were  thus 
expressing  itself. 

At  the  garden  gate  she  saw  the  bent  figure  on 
the  old  bench,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  flying 
along  the  rose  walk. 

"  Daddy!  "  she  called,  "  Daddy!  " 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  171 

Old  Man  Shaw  stood  up  in  hasty  bewilderment ; 
then  a  pair  of  girlish  arms  were  about  his  neck, 
and  a  pair  of  warm  red  lips  were  on  his;  girlish 
eyes,  full  of  love,  were  looking  up  into  his,  and  a 
never-forgotten  voice,  tingling  with  laughter  and 
tears  blended  into  one  delicious  chord,  was  cry- 
ing, 

"  Oh,  daddy,  is  it  really  you?  Oh,  I  can't  tell 
you  how  good  it  is  to  see  you  again !  " 

Old  Man  Shaw  held  her  tightly  in  a  silence  of 
amazement  and  joy  too  deep  for  wonder.  Why, 
this  was  his  Blossom  —  the  very  Blossom  who  had 
gone  away  three  years  ago !  A  little  taller,  a  little 
more  womanly,  but  his  own  dear  Blossom,  and 
no  stranger.  There  was  a  new  heaven  and  a  new 
earth  for  him  in  the  realization. 

"  Oh,  Baby  Blossom!  "  he  murmured,  "  Little 
Baby  Blossom!  " 

Sara  rubbed  her  cheek  against  the  faded  coat 
sleeve. 

"  Daddy  darling,  this  moment  makes  up  for 
everything,  doesn't  it?  " 

"But' — but- — where  did  you  come  from?" 
he  asked,  his  senses  beginning  to  struggle  out  of 
their  bewilderment  of  surprise.  "  I  didn't  expect 
you  till  to-morrow.  You  didn't  have  to  walk 
from  the  station,  did  you?  And  your  old  daddy 
not  there  to  welcome  you!  " 


172          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Sara  laughed,  swung  herself  back  by  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  and  danced  around  him  in  the 
childish  fashion  of  long  ago. 

"  I  found  I  could  make  an  earlier  connection 
with  the  C.  P.  A.  yesterday  and  get  to  the  Island 
last  night.  I  was  in  such  a  fever  to  get  home  that 
I  jumped  at  the  chance.  Of  course  I  walked  from 
the  station  —  it's  only  two  miles  and  every  step 
was  a  benediction.  My  trunks  are  over  there. 
We'll  go  after  them  to-morrow,  daddy,  but  just 
now  I  want  to  go  straight  to  every  one  of  the  dear 
old  nooks  and  spots  at  once." 

"  You  must  get  something  to  eat  first,"  he  urged 
fondly.  "  And  there  ain't  much  in  the  house,  I'm 
afraid.  I  was  going  to  bake  to-morrow  morning. 
But  I  guess  I  can  forage  you  out  something,  dar- 
ling." 

He  was  sorely  repenting  having  given  Mrs. 
Blewett's  doughnuts  to  the  pigs,  but  Sara  brushed 
all  such  considerations  aside  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand. 

"  I  don't  want  anything  to  eat  just  now.  By 
and  by  we'll  have  a  snack;  just  as  we  used  to 
get  up  for  ourselves  whenever  we  felt  hungry. 
Don't  you  remember  how  scandalized  White 
Sands  folk  used  to  be  at  our  irregular  hours? 
I'm  hungry;  but  it's  soul  hunger,  for  a  glimpse  of 
all  the  dear  old  rooms  and  places.  Come  —  there 


OLD    MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  173 

are  four  hours  yet  before  sunset,  and  I  want  to 
cram  into  them  all  I've  missed  out  of  these  three 
years.  Let  us  begin  right  here  with  the  garden. 
Oh,  daddy,  by  what  witchcraft  have  you  coaxed 
the  sulky  rose-bush  into  bloom?  " 

"  No  witchcraft  at  all  • —  it  just  bloomed  be- 
cause you  were  coming  home,  baby,"  said  her 
father. 

They  had  a  glorious  afternoon  of  it,  those  two 
children.  They  explored  the  garden  and  then 
the  house.  Sara  danced  through  every  room, 
and  then  up  to  her  own,  holding  fast  to  her 
father's  hand. 

"  Oh,  it's  lovely  to  see  my  little  room  again, 
daddy.  I'm  sure  all  my  old  hopes  and  dreams  are 
waiting  here  for  me." 

She  ran  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open, 
leaning  out. 

"  Daddy,  there's  no  view  in  the  world  so  beauti- 
ful as  that  curve  of  sea  between  the  headlands. 
I've  looked  at  magnificent  scenery  —  and  then  I'd 
shut  my  eyes  and  conjure  up  that  picture.  Oh, 
listen  to  the  wind  keening  in  the  trees!  How 
I've  longed  for  that  music!  " 

He  took  her  to  the  orchard  and  followed  out 
his  crafty  plan  of  surprise  perfectly.  She  re- 
warded him  by  doing  exactly  what  he  had  dreamed 
of  her  doing,  clapping  her  hands  and  crying  out : 


174          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Oh,  daddy!    Why,  daddy!  " 

They  finished  up  with  the  shore,  and  then  at 
sunset  they  came  back  and  sat  down  on  the 
old  garden  bench.  Before  them  a  sea  of  splendour 
burning  like  a  great  jewel  stretched  to  the  gate- 
ways of  the  west.  The  long  headlands  on  either 
side  were  darkly  purple,  and  the  sun  left  behind 
him  a  vast,  cloudless  arc  of  fiery  daffodil  and 
elusive  rose.  Back  over  the  orchard  in  a  cool, 
green  sky  glimmered  a  crystal  planet,  and  the 
night  poured  over  them  a  clear  wine  of  dew  from 
her  airy  chalice.  The  spruces  were  rejoicing  in 
the  wind,  and  even  the  battered  firs  were  singing 
of  the  sea.  Old  memories  trooped  into  their 
hearts  like  shining  spirits. 

"  Baby  Blossom,"  said  Old  Man  Shaw  falter- 
ingly,  "  are  you  quite  sure  you'll  be  contented 
here?  Out  there  "  —  with  a  vague  sweep  of  his 
hand  towards  horizons  that  shut  out  a  world  far 
removed  from  White  Sands  —  "  there's  pleasure 
and  excitement  and  all  that.  Won't  you  miss  it? 
Won't  you  get  tired  of  your  old  father  and  White 
Sands?  " 

Sara  patted  his  hand  gently. 

"  The  world  out  there  is  a  good  place,"  she  said 
thoughtfully.  "  I've  had  three  splendid  years 
and  I  hope  they'll  enrich  my  whole  life.  There 
are  wonderful  things  out  there  to  see  and  learn, 


OLD   MAN    SHAW'S    GIRL  175 

fine,  noble  people  to  meet,  beautiful  deeds  to 
admire;  but,"  she  wound  her  arm  about  his 
neck  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his  —  "there 
was  no  daddy!  " 

And  Old  Man  Shaw  looked  silently  at  the  sun- 
set —  or,  rather,  through  the  sunset  to  still 
grander  and  more  radiant  splendours  beyond,  of 
which  the  things  seen  were  only  the  pale  reflec- 
tions, not  worthy  of  attention  from  those  who 
had  the  gift  of  further  sight. 


VII 

AUNT  OLIVIA'S  BEAU 

AUNT  OLIVIA  told  Peggy  and  me  about  him  on 
the  afternoon  we  went  over  to  help  her  gather 
her  late  roses  for  pot-pourri.  We  found  her 
strangely  quiet  and  preoccupied.  As  a  rule  she 
was  fond  of  mild  fun,  alert  to  hear  East  Grafton 
gossip,  and  given  to  sudden  little  trills  of  almost 
girlish  laughter,  which  for  the  time  being  dis- 
pelled the  atmosphere  of  gentle  old-maidishness 
which  seemed  to  hang  about  her  as  a  garment. 
At  such  moments  we  did  not  find  it  hard  to  be- 
lieve —  as  we  did  at  other  times  —  that  Aunt 
Olivia  had  once  been  a  girl  herself. 

This  day  she  picked  the  roses  absently,  and 
shook  the  fairy  petals  into  her  little  sweet-grass 
basket  with  the  air  of  a  woman  whose  thoughts 
were  far  away.  We  said  nothing,  knowing  that 
Aunt  Olivia's  secrets  always  came  our  way  in  time. 
When  the  rose-leaves  were  picked  we  carried  them 
in  and  upstairs  in  single  file,  Aunt  Olivia  bringing 
up  the  rear  to  pick  up  any  stray  rose-leaf  we 
176 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  177 

might  drop.  In  the  south-west  room,  where  there 
was  no  carpet  to  fade,  we  spread  them  on  news- 
papers on  the  floor.  Then  we  put  our  sweet- 
grass  baskets  back  in  the  proper  place  in  the 
proper  closet  in  the  proper  room.  What  would 
have  happened  to  us,  or  to  the  sweet-grass  baskets, 
if  this  had  not  been  done  I  do  not  know.  Nothing 
was  ever  permitted  to  remain  an  instant  out  of 
place  in  Aunt  Olivia's  house. 

When  we  went  downstairs  Aunt  Olivia  asked 
us  to  go  into  the  parlour.  She  had  something  to 
tell  us,  she  said,  and  as  she  opened  the  door  a 
delicate  pink  flush  spread  over  her  face.  I  noted 
it,  with  surprise,  but  no  inkling  of  the  truth  came 
to  me  —  for  nobody  ever  connected  the  idea 
of  possible  lovers  or  marriage  with  this  prim 
little  old  maid,  Olivia  Sterling. 

Aunt  Olivia's  parlour  was  much  like  herself  — 
painfully  neat.  Every  article  of  furniture  stood 
in  exactly  the  same  place  it  had  always  stood. 
Nothing  was  ever  suffered  to  be  disturbed.  The 
tassels  of  the  crazy  cushion  lay  just  so  over  the 
arm  of  the  sofa,  and  the  crochet  antimacassar 
was  always  spread  at  precisely  the  same  angle 
over  the  horsehair  rocking  chair.  No  speck  of 
dust  was  ever  visible;  no  fly  ever  invaded  that 
sacred  apartment. 

Aunt  Olivia  pulled  up  a  blind,  to  let  in  what 


178          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

light  could  sift  finely  through  the  vine  leaves, 
and  sat  down  in  a  high-backed  old  chair  that  had 
appertained  to  her  great-grandmother.  She  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked  at  us  with  shy 
appeal  in  her  blue-gray  eyes.  Plainly  she  found 
it  hard  to  tell  us  her  secret,  yet  all  the  time  there 
was  an  air  of  pride  and  exultation  about  her; 
somewhat,  also,  of  a  new  dignity.  Aunt  Olivia 
could  never  be  self-assertive,  but  if  it  had  been 
possible  that  would  have  been  her  time  for  it. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  me  speak  of  Mr.  Mal- 
colm MacPherson?  "  asked  Aunt  Olivia. 

We  had  never  heard  her,  or  anybody  else,  speak 
of  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson;  but  volumes  of 
explanation  could  not  have  told  us  more  about 
him  than  did  Aunt  Olivia's  voice  when  she  pro- 
nounced his  name.  We  knew,  as  if  it  had  been 
proclaimed  to  us  in  trumpet  tones,  that  Mr. 
Malcolm  MacPherson  must  be  Aunt  Olivia's 
beau,  and  the  knowledge  took  away  our  breath. 
We  even  forgot  to  be  curious,  so  astonished  were 
we. 

And  there  sat  Aunt  Olivia,  proud  and  shy  and 
exulting  and  shamefaced,  all  at  once! 

"  He  is  a  brother  of  Mrs.  John  Seaman's  across 
the  bridge,"  explained  Aunt  Olivia  with  a  little 
simper.  "  Of  course  you  don't  remember  him. 
He  went  out  to  British  Columbia  twenty  years 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  179 

ago.  But  he  is  coming  home  now  —  and  —  and 
—  tell  your  father,  won't  you  —  I  —  I  —  don't 
like  to  tell  him  —  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  and 
I  are  going  to  be  married." 

"  Married!  "  gasped  Peggy.  And  "  married!  " 
I  echoed  stupidly. 

Aunt  Olivia  bridled  a  little. 

"  There  is  nothing  unsuitable  in  that,  is  there?  " 
she  asked,  rather  crisply. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  I  hastened  to  assure  her,  giving 
Peggy  a  surreptitious  kick  to  divert  her  thoughts 
from  laughter.  "  Only  you  must  realize,  Aunt 
Olivia,  that  this  is  a  very  great  surprise  to  us." 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  so,"  said  Aunt  Olivia 
complacently.  "  But  your  father  will  know  —  he 
will  remember.  I  do  hope  he  won't  think  me 
foolish.  He  did  not  think  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son was  a  fit  person  for  me  to  marry  once.  But 
that  was  long  ago,  when  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson 
was  very  poor.  He  is  in  very  comfortable  cir- 
cumstances now." 

1  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Aunt  Olivia,"  said  Peggy. 
She  did  not  look  at  me,  which  was  my  salvation. 
Had  I  caught  Peggy's  eye  when  Aunt  Olivia 
said  "  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  "  in  that  tone 
I  must  have  laughed,  willy-nilly. 

"  When  I  was  a  girl  the  MacPhersons  used  to 
live  across  the  road  from  here.  Mr.  Malcolm 


180          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

MacPherson  was  my  beau  then.  But  my  family 
—  and  your  father  especially  —  dear  me,  I  do 
hope  he  won't  be  very  cross  —  were  opposed  to  his 
attentions  and  were  very  cool  to  him.  I  think 
that  was  why  he  never  said  anything  to  me  about 
getting  married  then.  And  after  a  time  he  went 
away,  as  I  have  said,  and  I  never  heard  anything 
from  him  directly  for  many  a  year.  Of  course, 
his  sister  sometimes  gave  me  news  of  him.  But 
last  June  I  had  a  letter  from  him.  He  said  he 
was  coming  home  to  settle  down  for  good  on  the 
old  Island,  and  he  asked  me  if  I  would  marry  him. 
I  wrote  back  and  said  I  would.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  have  consulted  your  father,  but  I  was  afraid 
he  would  think  I  ought  to  refuse  Mr.  Malcolm 
MacPherson." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  father  will  mind,"  said 
Peggy  reassuringly. 

"  I  hope  not,  because,  of  course,  I  would  con- 
sider it  my  duty  in  any  case  to  fulfil  the  promise 
I  have  given  to  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson.  He 
will  be  in  Grafton  next  week,  the  guest  of  his 
sister,  Mrs.  John  Seaman,  across  the  bridge." 

Aunt  Olivia  said  that  exactly  as  if  she  were 
reading  it  from  the  personal  column  of  the  Daily 
Enterprise. 

"  When  is  the  wedding  to  be?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh! "      Aunt    Olivia    blushed    distressfully. 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  181 

"  I  do  not  know  the  exact  date.  Nothing  can 
be  definitely  settled  until  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson  comes.  But  it  will  not  be  before  Septem- 
ber, at  the  earliest.  There  will  be  so  much  to 
do.  You  will  tell  your  father,  won't  you?  " 

We  promised  that  we  would,  and  Aunt  Olivia 
arose  with  an  air  of  relief.  Peggy  and  I  hurried 
over  home,  stopping,  when  we  were  safely  out 
of  earshot,  to  laugh.  The  romances  of  the  middle- 
aged  may  be  to  them  as  tender  and  sweet  as  those 
of  youth,  but  they  are  apt  to  possess  a  good  deal 
of  humour  for  onlookers.  Only  youth  can  be  sen- 
timental without  being  mirth-provoking.  We 
loved  Aunt  Olivia  and  were  glad  for  her  late, 
new-blossoming  happiness;  but  we  felt  amused 
over  it  also.  The  recollection  of  her  "  Mr. 
Malcolm  MacPherson  "  was  too  much  for  us 
every  time  we  thought  of  it. 

Father  pooh-poohed  incredulously  at  first, 
and,  when  we  had  convinced  him,  guffawed 
with  laughter.  Aunt  Olivia  need  not  have 
dreaded  any  more  opposition  from  her  cruel 
family. 

"  MacPherson  was  a  good  fellow  enough,  but 
horribly  poor,"  said  father.  "  I  hear  he  has  done 
very  well  out  west,  and  if  he  and  Olivia  have 
a  notion  of  each  other  they  are  welcome  to  marry 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  Tell  Olivia  she  mustn't 


182          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

take  a  spasm  if  he  tracks  some  mud  into  her  house 
once  in  a  while." 

Thus  it  was  all  arranged,  and,  before  we  real- 
ized it  at  all,  Aunt  Olivia  was  mid-deep  in  marriage 
preparations,  in  all  of  which  Peggy  and  I  were 
quite  indispensable.  She  consulted  us  in  regard 
to  everything,  and  we  almost  lived  at  her  place 
in  those  days  preceding  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Mal- 
colm MacPherson. 

Aunt  Olivia  plainly  felt  very  happy  and  import- 
ant. She  had  always  wished  to  be  married ;  she  was 
not  in  the  least  strong-minded  and  her  old-maiden- 
hood had  always  been  a  sore  point  with  her.  I 
think  she  looked  upon  it  as  somewhat  of  a  dis- 
grace. And  yet  she  was  a  born  old  maid ;  looking 
at  her,  and  taking  all  her  primness  and  little 
set  ways  into  consideration,  it  was  quite  impossible 
to  picture  her  as  the  wife  of  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson, or  anybody  else. 

We  soon  discovered  that,  to  Aunt  Olivia, 
Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  represented  a  merely 
abstract  proposition  —  the  man  who  was  to 
confer  on  her  the  long- withheld  dignity  of  matron- 
hood.  Her  romance  began  and  ended  there, 
although  she  was  quite  unconscious  of  this 
herself,  and  believed  that  she  was  deeply  in  love 
with  him. 

"  What  will  be  the  result,  Mary,  when  he  ar- 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  183 

rives  in  the  flesh  and  she  is  compelled  to  deal  with 
'  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  '  as  a  real,  live  man, 
instead  of  a  nebulous  '  party  of  the  second  part ' 
in  the  marriage  ceremony?  "  queried  Peggy, 
as  she  hemmed  table-napkins  for  Aunt  Olivia, 
sitting  on  her  well-scoured  sandstone  steps, 
and  carefully  putting  all  thread- clippings  and 
ravellings  into  the  little  basket  which  Aunt  Olivia 
had  placed  there  for  that  purpose. 

"  It  may  transform  her  from  a  self-centred 
old  maid  into  a  woman  for  whom  marriage  does 
not  seem  such  an  incongruous  thing,"  I  said. 

The  day  on  which  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson 
was  expected  Peggy  and  I  went  over.  We  had 
planned  to  remain  away,  thinking  that  the 
lovers  would  prefer  their  first  meeting  to  be  un- 
witnessed, but  Aunt  Olivia  insisted  on  our  being 
present.  She  was  plainly  nervous;  the  abstract 
was  becoming  concrete.  Her  little  house  was  in 
spotless,  speckless  order  from  top  to  bottom.  Aunt 
Olivia  had  herself  scrubbed  the  garret  floor  and 
swept  the  cellar  steps  that  very  morning  with 
as  much  painstaking  care  as  if  she  expected  that 
Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  would  hasten  to  in- 
spect each  at  once  and  she  must  stand  or  fall  by 
his  opinion  of  them. 

Peggy  and  I  helped  her  to  dress.  She  insisted 
on  wearing  her  best  black  silk,  in  which  she  looked 


184  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

unnaturally  fine.  Her  soft  muslin  became  her 
much  better,  but  we  could  not  induce  her  to  wear 
it.  Anything  more  prim  and  bandboxy  than 
Aunt  Olivia  when  her  toilet  was  finished  it  has 
never  been  my  lot  to  see.  Peggy  and  I  watched 
her  as  she  went  downstairs,  her  skirt  held  stiffly 
up  all  around  her  that  it  might  not  brush  the 
floor. 

"  '  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  '  will  be  inspired 
with  such  awe  that  he  will  only  be  able  to  sit 
back  and  gaze  at  her,"  whispered  Peggy.  "  I 
wish  he  would  come  and  have  it  over.  This  is 
getting  on  my  nerves." 

Aunt  Olivia  went  into  the  parlour,  settled  her- 
self in  the  old  carved  chair,  and  folded  her  hands. 
Peggy  and  I  sat  down  on  the  stairs  to  await 
his  coming  in  a  crisping  suspense.  Aunt  Olivia's 
kitten,  a  fat,  bewhiskered  creature,  looking  as 
if  it  were  cut  out  of  black  velvet,  shared  our 
vigil  and  purred  in  maddening  peace  of  mind. 

We  could  see  the  garden  path  and  gate  through 
the  hall  window,  and  therefore  supposed  we 
should  have  full  warning  of  the  approach  of 
Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson.  It  was  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  we  positively  jumped  when  a 
thunderous  knock  crashed  against  the  front 
door  and  re-echoed  through  the  house.  Had  Mr. 
Malcolm  MacPherson  dropped  from  the  skies? 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  185 

We  afterwards  discovered  that  he  had  come 
across  lots  and  around  the  house  from  the 
back,  but  just  then  his  sudden  advent  was  al- 
most uncanny.  I  ran  downstairs  and  opened  the 
door.  On  the  step  stood  a  man  about  six  feet 
two  in  height,  and  proportionately  broad  and 
sinewy.  He  had  splendid  shoulders,  a  great  crop 
of  curly  black  hair,  big,  twinkling  blue  eyes,  and  a 
tremendous  crinkly  black  beard  that  fell  over  his 
breast  in  shining  waves.  In  brief,  Mr.  Malcolm 
MacPherson  was  what  one  would  call  instinct- 
ively, if  somewhat  tritely,  "  a  magnificent  speci- 
men of  manhood." 

In  one  hand  he  carried  a  bunch  of  early  golden- 
rod  and  smoke-blue  asters. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  he  said  in  a  resonant 
voice  which  seemed  to  take  possession  of  the 
drowsy  summer  afternoon.  "  Is  Miss  Olivia 
Sterling  in?  And  will  you  please  tell  her  that 
Malcolm  MacPherson  is  here?  " 

I  showed  him  into  the  parlour.  Then  Peggy 
and  I  peeped  through  the  crack  of  the  door. 
Anyone  would  have  done  it.  We  would  have 
scorned  to  excuse  ourselves.  And,  indeed,  what 
we  saw  would  have  been  worth  several  conscience 
spasms  if  we  had  felt  any. 

Aunt  Olivia  arose  and  advanced  primly,  with 
outstretched  hand. 


186          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Mr.  MacPherson,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you," 
she  said  formally. 

"  It's  yourself,  Nillie!  "  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson gave  two  strides. 

He  dropped  his  flowers  on  the  floor,  knocked 
over  a  small  table,  and  sent  the  ottoman  spinning 
against  the  wall.  Then  he  had  caught  Aunt 
Olivia  in  his  arms  and  —  smack,  smack,  smack ! 
Peggy  sank  back  upon  the  stair-step  with  her 
handkerchief  stuffed  in  her  mouth.  Aunt  Olivia 
was  being  kissed! 

Presently  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  held  her 
back  at  arm's  length  in  his  big  paws  and  looked 
her  over.  I  saw  Aunt  Olivia's  eyes  roam  over 
his  arm  to  the  inverted  table  and  the  litter  of 
asters  and  goldenrod.  Her  sleek  crimps  were  all 
ruffled  up,  and  her  lace  fichu  twisted  half  around 
her  neck.  She  looked  distressed. 

"  It's  not  a  bit  changed  you  are,  Nillie,"  said 
Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  admiringly.  "  And 
it's  good  I'm  feeling  to  see  you  again.  Are  you 
glad  to  see  me,  Nillie?  " 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Aunt  Olivia. 

She  twisted  herself  free  and  went  to  set  up  the 
table.  Then  she  turned  to  the  flowers,  but  Mr. 
Malcolm  MacPherson  had  already  gathered  them 
up,  leaving  a  goodly  sprinkling  of  leaves  and 
stalks  on  the  carpet. 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAT/  187 

"  I  picked  these  for  you  in  the  river  field, 
Nillie,"  he  said.  "  Where  will  I  be  getting  some- 
thing to  stick  them  in?  Here,  this  will  do." 

He  grasped  a  frail,  painted  vase  on  the  mantel, 
stuffed  the  flowers  in  it,  and  set  it  on  the  table. 
The  look  on  Aunt  Olivia's  face  was  too  much 
for  me  at  last.  I  turned,  caught  Peggy  by  the 
shoulder  and  dragged  her  out  of  the  house. 

"  He  will  horrify  the  very  soul  out  of  Aunt 
Olivia's  body  if  he  goes  on  like  this,"  I  gasped. 
"But  he's  splendid  —  and  he  thinks  the  world 
of  her  —  and,  oh,  Peggy,  did  you  ever  hear  such 
kisses?  Fancy  Aunt  Olivia!  " 

It  did  not  take  us  long  to  get  well  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson.  He  almost  haunted 
Aunt  Olivia's  house,  and  Aunt  Olivia  insisted 
on  our  staying  with  her  most  of  the  time.  She 
seemed  to  be  very  shy  of  finding  herself  alone  with 
him.  He  horrified  her  a  dozen  times  in  an  hour; 
nevertheless,  she  was  very  proud  of  him,  and 
liked  to  be  teased  about  him,  too.  She  was  de- 
lighted that  we  admired  him. 

"  Though,  to  be  sure,  he  is  very  different  in 
his  looks  from  what  he  used  to  be,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  so  dreadfully  big!  And  I  do  not  like  a 
beard,  but  I  have  not  the  courage  to  ask  him  to 
shave  it  off.  He  might  be  offended.  He  has 
bought  the  old  Lynde  place  in  Avonlea  and  wants 


188          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

to  be  married  in  a  month.  But,  dear  me,  that  is 
too  soon.  It  —  it  would  be  hardly  proper." 

Peggy  and  I  liked  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson 
very  much.  So  did  father.  We  were  glad  that 
he  seemed  to  think  Aunt  Olivia  perfection.  He 
was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long;  but  poor 
Aunt  Olivia,  under  all  her  surface  pride  and  im- 
portance, was  not.  Amid  all  the  humour  of  the 
circumstances  Peggy  and  I  snuffed  tragedy  com- 
pounded with  the  humour. 

Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  could  never  be 
trained  to  old-maidishness,  and  even  Aunt  Olivia 
seemed  to  realize  this.  He  never  stopped  to 
clean  his  boots  when  he  came  in,  although  she 
had  an  ostentatiously  new  scraper  put  at  each 
door  for  his  benefit.  He  seldom  moved  in  the 
house  without  knocking  some  of  Aunt  Olivia's 
treasures  over.  He  smoked  cigars  in  her  parlour 
and  scattered  the  ashes  over  the  floor.  He 
brought  her  flowers  every  day  and  stuck  them 
into  whatever  receptacle  came  handiest.  He  sat 
on  her  cushions  and  rolled  her  antimacassars  up 
into  balls.  He  put  his  feet  on  her  chair  rungs  — 
and  all  with  the  most  distracting  unconscious- 
ness of  doing  anything  out  of  the  way.  He  never 
noticed  Aunt  Olivia's  fluttering  nervousness  at 
all.  Peggy  and  I  laughed  more  than  was  good 
for  us  those  days.  It  was  so  funny  to  see  Aunt 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  189 

Olivia  hovering  anxiously  around,  picking  up 
flower  stems,  and  smoothing  out  tidies,  and  gen- 
erally following  him  about  to  straighten  out 
things.  Once  she  even  got  a  wing  and  a  dust- 
pan and  swept  the  cigar  ashes  under  his  very  eyes. 

"  Now  don't  be  worrying  yourself  over  that, 
Nillie,"  he  protested.  "  Why,  I  don't  mind  a  litter, 
bless  you!  " 

How  good  and  jolly  he  was,  that  Mr.  Malcolm 
MacPherson !  Such  songs  as  he  sang,  such  stories 
as  he  told,  such  a  breezy,  unconventional  at- 
mosphere as  he  brought  into  that  prim  little  house, 
where  stagnant  dulness  had  reigned  for  years! 
He  worshipped  Aunt  Olivia,  and  his  worship 
took  the  concrete  form  of  presents  galore.  He 
brought  her  a  present  almost  every  visit  —  gen- 
erally some  article  of  jewelry.  Bracelets,  rings, 
chains,  ear-drops,  lockets,  bangles,  were  showered 
upon  our  precise  little  aunt;  she  accepted  them 
deprecatingly,  but  never  wore  them.  This  hurt 
him  a  little,  but  she  assured  him  she  would  wear 
them  all  sometime. 

"  I  am  not  used  to  jewelry,  Mr.  MacPherson," 
she  would  tell  him. 

Her  engagement  ring  she  did  wear  —  it  was 
a  rather  "  loud  "  combination  of  engraved  gold 
and  opals.  Sometimes  we  caught  her  turning 
it  on  her  finger  with  a  very  troubled  face. 


190          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  I  would  be  sorry  for  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son  if  he  were  not  so  much  in  love  with  her," 
said  Peggy.  "  But  as  he  thinks  that  she  is  per- 
fection he  doesn't  need  sympathy." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  Aunt  Olivia,"  I  said.  "  Yes, 
Peggy*  I  am-  Mr.  MacPherson  is  a  splendid 
man,  but  Aunt  Olivia  is  a  born  old  maid,  and  it 
is  outraging  her  very  nature  to  be  anything 
else.  Don't  you  see  how  it's  hurting  her?  His 
big,  splendid  man-ways  are  harrowing  her  very 
soul  up  —  she  can't  get  out  of  her  little,  narrow 
groove,  and  it  is  killing  her  to  be  pulled  out." 

"  Nonsense!  "  said  Peggy.  Then  she  added 
with  a  laugh, 

11  Mary,  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  funny 
as  Aunt  Olivia  sitting  on  '  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson's  '  knee?  " 

It  was  funny.  Aunt  Olivia  thought  it  very 
unbecoming  to  sit  there  before  us,  but  he  made 
her  do  it.  He  would  say,  with  his  big,  jolly 
laugh,  "  Don't  be  minding  the  little  girls,"  and 
pull  her  down  on  his  knee  and  hold  her  there. 
To  my  dying  day  I  shall  never  forget  the  ex- 
pression on  the  poor  little  woman's  face. 

But,  as  the  days  went  by  and  Mr.  Macolm 
MacPherson  began  to  insist  on  a  date  being 
set  for  the  wedding,  Aunt  Olivia  grew  to  have 
a  strangely  disturbed  look.  She  became  very 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  191 

quiet,  and  never  laughed  except  under  protest. 
Also,  she  showed  signs  of  petulance  when  any  of 
us,  but  especially  father,  teased  her  about  her 
beau.  I  pitiecMier,  for  I  think  I  understood 
better  than  the  others  what  her  feelings  really 
were.  But  even  I  was  not  prepared  for  what  did 
happen.  I  would  not  have  believed  that  Aunt 
Olivia  could  do  it.  I  thought  that  her  desire 
for  marriage  in  the  abstract  would  outweigh  the 
disadvantages  of  the  concrete.  But  one  can  never 
reckon  with  real,  bred-in-the-bone  old-maidism. 

One  morning  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  told 
us  all  that  he  was  coming  up  that  evening  to 
make  Aunt  Olivia  set  the  day.  Peggy  and  I 
laughingly  approved,  telling  him  that  it  was 
high  time  for  him  to  assert  his  authority,  and  he 
went  off  in  great  good  humour  across  the  river 
field,  whistling  a  Highland  strathspey.  But  Aunt 
Olivia  looked  like  a  martyr.  She  had  a  fierce 
attack  of  housecleaning  that  day,  and  put  every- 
thing in  flawless  order,  even  to  the  corners. 

"  As  if  there  was  going  to  be  a  funeral  in  the 
house,"  sniffed  Peggy. 

Peggy  and  I  were  up  in  the  south-west  room 
at  dusk  that  evening,  piecing  a  quilt,  when  we 
heard  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  shouting  out  in 
the  hall  below  to  know  if  anyone  was  home.  I  ran 
out  to  the  landing,  but  as  I  did  so  Aunt  Olivia 


192          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

came  out  of  her  room,  brushed  past  me,  and 
flitted  downstairs. 

"  Mr.  MacPherson,"  I  heard  her  say  with 
double-distilled  primness,  "  will  you  please  come 
into  the  parlour?  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

They  went  in,  and  I  returned  to  the  south- 
west room. 

"  Peg,  there's  trouble  brewing,"  I  said.  "  I'm 
sure  of  it  by  Aunt  Olivia's  face  —  it  was  gray. 
And  she  has  gone  down  alone  —  and  shut  the 
door." 

"  I  am  going  to  hear  what  she  says  to  him," 
said  Peggy  resolutely.  "It  is  her  own  fault  — 
she  has  spoiled  us  by  always  insisting  that  we 
should  be  present  at  their  interviews.  That 
poor  man  has  had  to  do  his  courting  under  our 
very  eyes.  Come  on,  Mary." 

The  south-west  room  was  directly  over  the 
parlour  and  there  was  an  open  stovepipe-hole 
leading  up  therefrom.  Peggy  removed  the  hat 
box  that  was  on  it,  and  we  both  deliberately  and 
shamelessly  crouched  down  and  listened  with 
all  our  might. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  hear  what  Mr.  Malcolm 
MacPherson  was  saying. 

"  I've  come  up  to  get  the  date  settled,  Nillie, 
as  I  told  you.  Come  now,  little  woman,  name 
the  day." 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  193 

Smack  I 

"  Don't,  Mr.  MacPherson,"  said  Aunt  Olivia. 
She  spoke  as  a  woman  who  has  keyed  herself 
up  to  the  doing  of  some  very  distasteful  task 
and  is  anxious  to  have  it  over  and  done  with  as 
soon  as  possible.  "  There  is  something  I  must  say 
to  you.  I  cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  MacPherson." 

There  was  a  pause.  I  would  have  given  much 
to  have  seen  the  pair  of  them.  When  Mr.  Mal- 
colm MacPherson  spoke  his  voice  was  that  of 
blank,  uncomprehending  amazement. 

"  Nillie,  what  is  it  you  are  meaning? "  he 
said. 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  MacPherson," 
repeated  Aunt  Olivia. 

"  Why  not?  "  Surprise  was  giving  way  to  dis- 
may. 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  understand,  Mr. 
MacPherson,"  said  Aunt  Olivia,  faintly.  "  You 
don't  realize  what  it  means  for  a  woman  to  give 
up  everything  —  her  own  home  and  friends  and 
all  her  past  life,  so  to  speak,  and  go  far  away 
with  a  stranger." 

"  Why,  I  suppose  it  will  be  rather  hard.  But, 
Nillie,  Avonlea  isn't  very  far  away  —  not  more 
than  twelve  miles,  if  it  will  be  that." 

"  Twelve  miles !  It  might  as  well  be  at  the  other 
side  of  the  world  to  all  intents  and  purposes," 


194          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

said  Aunt  Olivia  obstinately.  "  I  don't  know  a 
living  soul  there,  except  Rachel  Lynde." 

"  Why  didn't  you  say  so  before  I  bought  the 
place,  then?  But  it's  not  too  late.  I  can  be  sell- 
ing it  and  buying  right  here  in  East  Grafton  if 
that  will  please  you  —  though  there  isn't  half 
as  nice  a  place  to  be  had.  But  I'll  fix  it  up  some- 
how! " 

"  No,  Mr.  MacPherson,"  said  Aunt  Olivia 
firmly,  "  that  doesn't  cover  the  difficulty.  I 
knew  you  would  not  understand.  My  ways  are 
not  your  ways  and  I  cannot  make  them  over. 
For  —  you  track  mud  in  —  and  —  and  —  you 
don't  care  whether  things  are  tidy  or  not." 

Poor  Aunt  Olivia  had  to  be  Aunt  Olivia;  if 
she  were  being  burned  at  the  stake  I  verily  be- 
lieve she  would  have  dragged  some  grotesqueness 
into  the  tragedy  of  the  moment. 

"  The  devil!  "  said  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son—  not  profanely  or  angrily,  but  as  in  sheer 
bewilderment.  Then  he  added,  "  Nillie,  you  must 
be  joking.  It's  careless  enough  I  am  —  the  west 
isn't  a  good  place  to  learn  finicky  ways  —  but 
you  can  teach  me.  You're  not  going  to  throw 
me  over  because  I  track  mud  in!  " 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  MacPherson," 
said  Aunt  Olivia  again. 

"You   can't  be  meaning  it!"  he  exclaimed, 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  195 

because  he  was  beginning  to  understand  that  she 
did  mean  it,  although  it  was  impossible  for  his 
man  mind  to  understand  anything  else  about 
the  puzzle.  "  Nillie,  it's  breaking  my  heart  you 
are!  I'll  do  anything  —  go  anywhere  —  be  any- 
thing you  want  —  only  don't  be  going  back  on 
me  like  this." 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,  Mr.  MacPherson," 
said  Aunt  Olivia  for  the  fourth  time. 

"Nillie!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son. There  was  such  real  agony  in  his  tone  that 
Peggy  and  I  were  suddenly  stricken  with  contri- 
tion. What  were  we  doing?  We  had  no  right 
to  be  listening  to  this  pitiful  interview.  The 
pain  and  protest  in  his  voice  had  suddenly  ban- 
ished all  the  humour  from  it,  and  left  naught  but 
the  bare,  stark  tragedy.  We  rose  and  tiptoed 
out  of  the  room,  wholesomely  ashamed  of  our- 
selves. 

When  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  had  gone, 
after  an  hour  of  useless  pleading,  Aunt  Olivia 
came  up  to  us,  pale  and  prim  and  determined, 
and  told  us  that  there  was  to  be  no  wedding. 
We  could  not  pretend  surprise,  but  Peggy  ven- 
tured a  faint  protest. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Olivia,  do  you  think  you  have 
done  right?  " 

11  It  was  the  only  thing  I  could  do,"  said  Aunt 


196          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Olivia  stonily.  "  I  could  not  marry  Mr.  Malcolm 
MacPherson  and  I  told  him  so.  Please  tell  your 
father  —  and  kindly  say  nothing  more  to  me  about 
the  matter." 

Then  Aunt  Olivia  went  downstairs,  got  a 
broom,  and  swept  up  the  mud  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson had  tracked  over  the  steps. 

Peggy  and  I  went  home  and  told  father.  We 
felt  very  flat,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done 
or  said.  Father  laughed  at  the  whole  thing, 
but  I  could  not  laugh.  I  was  sorry  for  Mr.  Mal- 
colm MacPherson  and,  though  I  was  angry  with 
her,  I  was  sorry  for  Aunt  Olivia,  too.  Plainly 
she  felt  badly  enough  over  her  vanished  hopes 
and  plans,  but  she  had  developed  a  strange  and 
baffling  reserve  which  nothing  could  pierce. 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  chronic  case  of  old-maid- 
ism,"  said  father  impatiently. 

Things  were  very  dull  for  a  week.  We  saw  no 
more  of  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  and  we  missed 
him  dreadfully.  Aunt  Olivia  was  inscrutable, 
and  worked  with  fierceness  at  superfluous  tasks. 

One  evening  father  came  home  with  some  news. 

"  Malcolm  MacPherson  is  leaving  on  the  7.30 
train  for  the  west,"  he  said.  "  He  has  rented 
the  Avonlea  place  and  he's  off.  They  say  he  is 
mad  as  a  hatter  at  the  trick  Olivia  played  on  him." 

After  tea  Peggy  and  I  went  over  to  see  Aunt 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  197 

Olivia,  who  had  asked  our  advice  about  a  wrapper. 
She  was  sewing  as  for  dear  life,  and  her  face  was 
primmer  and  colder  than  ever.  I  wondered  if 
she  knew  of  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson's  de- 
parture. Delicacy  forbade  me  to  mention  it 
but  Peggy  had  no  such  scruples. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Olivia,  your  beau  is  off,"  she 
announced  cheerfully.  "  You  won't  be  bothered 
with  him  again.  He  is  leaving  on  the  mail  train 
for  the  west." 

Aunt  Olivia  dropped  her  sewing  and  stood  up. 
I  have  never  seen  anything  like  the  transforma- 
tion that  came  over  her.  It  was  so  thorough  and 
sudden  as  to  be  almost  uncanny.  The  old  maid 
vanished  completely,  and  in  her  place  was  a 
woman,  full  to  the  lips  with  primitive  emotion 
and  pain. 

"  What  shall  I  do?  "  she  cried  in  a  terrible 
voice.  "Mary  —  Peggy  —  what  shall  I  do?" 

It  was  almost  a  shriek.       Peggy  turned  pale. 

"  Do  you  care?  "  she  said  stupidly. 

"  Care!  Girls,  I  shall  die  if  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son  goes  away !  I  have  been  mad  —  I  must  have 
been  mad.  I  have  almost  died  of  loneliness 
since  I  sent  him  away.  But  I  thought  he  would 
come  back !  I  must  see  him  —  there  is  time  to 
reach  the  station  before  the  train  goes  if  I  go 
by  the  fields." 


198  CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

She  took  a  wild  step  towards  the  door,  but  I 
caught  her  back  with  a  sudden  mind-vision  of 
Aunt  Olivia  flying  bareheaded  and  distraught 
across  the  fields. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Aunt  Olivia.  Peggy,  run 
home  and  get  father  to  harness  Dick  in  the  buggy 
as  quickly  as  he  can.  We'll  drive  Aunt  Olivia  to 
the  station.  We'll  get  you  there  in  time,  Aunty." 

Peggy  flew,  and  Aunt  Olivia  dashed  upstairs. 
I  lingered  behind  to  pick  up  her  sewing,  and  when 
I  got  to  her  room  she  had  her  hat  and  cape  on. 
Spread  out  on  the  bed  were  all  the  boxes  of  gifts 
which  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  had  brought 
her,  and  Aunt  Olivia  was  stringing  their  con- 
tents feverishly  about  her  person.  Rings,  three 
brooches,  a  locket,  three  chains  and  a  watch  all 
went  on  —  anyway  and  anyhow.  A  wonderful 
sight  it  was  to  see  Aunt  Olivia  bedizened  like 
that! 

"  I  would  never  wear  them  before  —  but  I'll 
put  them  all  on  now  to  show  him  I'm  sorry," 
she  gasped,  with  trembling  lips. 

When  the  three  of  us  crowded  into  the  buggy, 
Aunt  Olivia  grasped  the  whip  before  we  could 
prevent  her  and,  leaning  out,  gave  poor  Dick 
such  a  lash  as  he  had  never  felt  in  his  life  before. 
He  went  tearing  down  the  steep,  stony,  fast- 
darkening  road  in  a  fashion  which  made  Peggy 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  199 

and  me  cry  out  in  alarm.  Aunt  Olivia  was  usually 
the  most  timid  of  women,  but  now  she  didn't 
seem  to  know  what  fear  was.  She  kept  whipping 
and  urging  poor  Dick  the  whole  way  to  the 
station,  quite  oblivious  to  our  assurances  that 
there  was  plenty  of  time.  The  people  who  met 
us  that  night  must  have  thought  we  were  quite 
mad.  I  held  on  the  reins,  Peggy  gripped  the 
swaying  side  of  the  buggy,  and  Aunt  Olivia  bent 
forward,  hat  and  hair  blowing  back  from  her  set 
face  with  its  strangely  crimson  cheeks,  and  plied 
the  whip.  In  such  a  guise  did  we  whirl  through 
the  village  and  over  the  two-mile  station  road. 

When  we  drove  up  to  the  station,  where  the 
train  was  shunting  amid  the  shadows,  Aunt  Olivia 
made  a  flying  leap  from  the  buggy  and  ran  along 
the  platform,  with  her  cape  streaming  behind 
her  and  all  her  brooches  and  chains  glittering 
in  the  lights.  I  tossed  the  reins  to  a  boy  standing 
near  and  we  followed.  Just  under  the  glare  of 
the  station  lamp  we  saw  Mr.  Malcolm  Mac- 
Pherson,  grip  in  hand.  Fortunately  no  one  else 
was  very  near,  but  it  would  have  been  all  the 
same  had  they  been  the  centre  of  a  crowd.  Aunt 
Olivia  fairly  flung  herself  against  him. 

"Malcolm,"  she  cried,  "don't  go  —  don't 
go  —  I'll  marry  you  —  I'll  go  anywhere  —  and 
I  don't  care  how  much  mud  you  bring  in!  " 


200          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

That  truly  Aunt  Olivian  touch  relieved  the 
tension  of  the  situation  a  little.  Mr.  MacPherson 
put  his  arm  about  her  and  drew  her  back  into 
the  shadows. 

"  There,  there,"  he  soothed.  "  Of  course  I 
won't  be  going.  Don't  cry,  Nillie-girl." 

"  And  you'll  come  right  back  with  me  now?  " 
implored  Aunt  Olivia,  clinging  to  him  as  if  she 
feared  he  would  be  whisked  away  from  her  yet 
if  she  let  go  for  a  moment. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said. 

Peggy  got  a  chance  home  with  a  friend,  and 
Aunt  Olivia  and  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPherson  and  I 
drove  back  in  the  buggy.  Mr.  MacPherson  held 
Aunt  Olivia  on  his  knee  because  there  was  no 
room,  but  she  would  have  sat  there,  I  think, 
had  there  been  a  dozen  vacant  seats.  She  clung 
to  him  in  the  most  barefaced  fashion,  and  all 
her  former  primness  and  reserve  were  swept 
away  completely.  She  kissed  him  a  dozen  times 
or  more  and  told  him  she  loved  him  —  and  I 
did  not  even  smile,  nor  did  I  want  to.  Somehow, 
it  did  not  seem  in  the  least  funny  to  me  then, 
nor  does  it  now,  although  it  doubtless  will  to 
others.  There  was  too  much  real  intensity  of 
feeling  in  it  all  to  leave  any  room  for  the  ridicu- 
lous. So  wrapped  up  in  each  other  were  they 
that  I  did  not  even  feel  superfluous. 


AUNT    OLIVIA'S    BEAU  201 

I  set  them  safely  down  in  Aunt  Olivia's  yard 
and  turned  homeward,  completely  forgotten  by 
the  pair.  But  in  the  moonlight,  which  flooded 
the  front  of  the  house,  I  saw  something  that  tes- 
tified eloquently  to  the  transformation  in  Aunt 
Olivia.  It  had  rained  that  afternoon  and  the 
yard  was  muddy.  Nevertheless,  she  went  in  at 
her  front  door  and  took  Mr.  Malcolm  MacPher- 
son  in  with  her  without  even  a  glance  at  the 
scraper! 


VIII 

THE  QUARANTINE  AT  ALEXANDER  ABRAHAM'S 

I  REFUSED  to  take  that  class  in  Sunday  School 
the  first  time  I  was  asked.  It  was  not  that  I  ob- 
jected to  teaching  in  the  Sunday  School.  On  the 
contrary,  I  rather  liked  the  idea;  but  it  was  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Allan  who  asked  me,  and  it  had  always 
been  a  matter  of  principle  with  me  never  to  do 
anything  a  man  asked  me  to  do  if  I  could  help  it. 
I  was  noted  for  that.  It  saves  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  and  it  simplifies  everything  beautifully. 
I  had  always  disliked  men.  It  must  have  been 
born  in  me,  because,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, an  antipathy  to  men  and  dogs  was  one  of  my 
strongest  characteristics.  I  was  noted  for  that. 
My  experiences  through  life  only  served  to  deepen 
it.  The  more  I  saw  of  men,  the  more  I  liked  cats. 

So,  of  course,  when  the  Rev.  Allan  asked  me  if 
I  would  consent  to  take  a  class  in  Sunday  School 
I  said  no  in  a  fashion  calculated  to  chasten  him 
wholesomely.  If  he  had  sent  his  wife  the  first 
time,  as  he  did  the  second,  it  would  have  been 

202 


THE    QUARANTINE  203 

wiser.  People  generally  do  what  Mrs.  Allan  asks 
them  to  do  because  they  know  it  saves  time. 

Mrs.  Allan  talked  smoothly  for  half  an  hour  be- 
fore she  mentioned  the  Sunday  School,  and  paid 
me  several  compliments.  Mrs.  Allan  is  famous  for 
her  tact.  Tact  is  a  faculty  for  meandering  around 
to  a  given  point  instead  of  making  a  bee-line.  I 
have  no  tact.  I  am  noted  for  that.  As  soon  as 
Mrs.  Allan's  conversation  came  in  sight  of  the 
Sunday  School,  I,  who  knew  all  along  whither  it 
was  tending,  said,  straight  out, 

"  What  class  do  you  want  me  to  teach?  " 

Mrs.  Allan  was  so  surprised  that  she  forgot  to 
be  tactful,  and  answered  plainly  for  once  in  her 
life, 

"  There  are  two  classes  —  one  of  boys  and  one 
of  girls  —  needing  a  teacher.  I  have  been  teach- 
ing the  girls'  class,  but  I  shall  have  to  give  it  up 
for  a  little  time  on  account  of  the  baby's  health. 
You  may  have  your  choice,  Miss  M.icPherson." 

"  Then  I  shall  take  the  boys,"  I  said  decidedly. 
I  am  noted  for  my  decision.  "  Since  they  have  to 
grow  up  to  be  men  it's  well  to  train  them  properly 
betimes.  Nuisances  they  are  bound  to  become 
under  any  circumstances;  but  if  they  are  taken 
in  hand  young  enough  they  may  not  grow  up  to 
be  such  nuisances  as  they  otherwise  would  and 
that  will  be  some  unfortunate  woman's  gain." 


204          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Mrs.  Allan  looked  dubious.  I  knew  she  had 
expected  me  to  choose  the  girls. 

"  They  are  a  very  wild  set  of  boys,"  she  said. 

"  I  never  knew  boys  who  weren't,"  I  retorted. 

"  I  —  I  —  think  perhaps  you  would  like  the 
girls  best,"  said  Mrs.  Allan  hesitatingly.  If  it 
had  not  been  for  one  thing  —  which  I  would  never 
in  this  world  have  admitted  to  Mrs.  Allan  —  I 
might  have  liked  the  girls'  class  best  myself.  But 
the  truth  was,  Anne  Shirley  was  in  that  class ;  and 
Anne  Shirley  was  the  one  living  human  being  that 
I  was  afraid  of.  Not  that  I  disliked  her.  But  she 
had  such  a  habit  of  asking  weird,  unexpected 
questions,  which  a  Philadelphia  lawyer  couldn't 
answer.  Miss  Rogerson  had  that  class  once  and 
Anne  routed  her,  horse,  foot  and  artillery.  / 
wasn't  going  to  undertake  a  class  with  a  walking 
interrogation  point  in  it  like  that.  Besides,  I 
thought  Mrs.  Allan  required  a  slight  snub.  Min- 
isters' wives  are  rather  apt  to  think  they  can  run 
everything  and  everybody,  if  they  are  not  whole- 
somely corrected  now  and  again. 

11  It  is  not  what  /  like  best  that  must  be  consid- 
ered, Mrs.  Allan,"  I  said  rebukingly.  "  It  is  what 
is  best  for  those  boys.  I  feel  that  /  shall  be  best 
for  them." 

"Oh,  I've  no  doubt  of  that,  Miss  MacPher- 
son,"  said  Mrs.  Allan  amiably.  It  was  a  fib  for 


THE    QUARANTINE  205 

her,  minister's  wife  though  she  was.  She  had 
doubt.  She  thought  I  would  be  a  dismal  failure 
as  teacher  of  a  boys'  class. 

But  I  was  not.  I  am  not  often  a  dismal  failure 
when  I  make  up  my  mind  to  do  a  thing.  I  am 
noted  for  that. 

"  It  is  wonderful  what  a  reformation  you  have 
worked  in  that  class,  Miss  MacPherson  —  won- 
derful," said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Allan  some  weeks  later. 
He  didn't  mean  to  show  how  amazing  a  thing  he 
thought  it  that  an  old  maid  noted  for  being  a  man 
hater  should  have  managed  it,  but  his  face  be- 
trayed him. 

"  Where  does  Jimmy  Spencer  live?  "  I  asked 
him  crisply.  "  He  came  one  Sunday  three  weeks 
ago  and  hasn't  been  back  since.  I  mean  to  find 
out  why." 

Mr.  Allan  coughed. 

"  I  believe  he  is  hired  as  handy  boy  with  Alex- 
ander Abraham  Bennett,  out  on  the  White  Sands 
road,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  am  going  out  to  Alexander  Abraham 
Bennett's  on  the  White  Sands  road  to  see  why 
Jimmy  Spencer  doesn't  come  to  Sunday  School," 
I  said  firmly. 

Mr.  Allan's  eye  twinkled  ever  so  slightly.  I 
have  always  insisted  that  if  that  man  were  not  a 
minister  he  would  have  a  sense  of  humour. 


206          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Possibly  Mr.  Bennett  will  not  appreciate 
your  kind  interest !  He  has  —  ah  —  a  singular 
aversion  to  your  sex,  I  understand.  No  woman 
has  eve'r  been  known  to  get  inside  of  Mr.  Bennett's 
house  since  his  sister  died  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Oh,  he  is  the  one,  is  he?  "  I  said,  remember- 
ing. "  He  is  the  woman  hater  who  threatens  that 
if  a  woman  comes  into  his  yard  he'll  chase  her 
out  with  a  pitchfork.  Well,  he  will  not  chase  me 
out!  " 

Mr.  Allan  gave  a  chuckle  —  a  ministerial 
chuckle,  but  still  a  chuckle.  It  irritated  me 
slightly,  because  it  seemed  to  imply  that  he 
thought  Alexander  Abraham  Bennett  would  be 
one  too  many  for  me.  But  I  did  not  show  Mr. 
Allan  that  he  annoyed  me.  It  is  always  a  great 
mistake  to  let  a  man  see  that  he  can  vex  you. 

The  next  afternoon  I  harnessed  my  sorrel  pony 
to  the  buggy  and  drove  down  to  Alexander  Abra- 
ham Bennett's.  As  usual,  I  took  William  Adol- 
phus  with  me  for  company.  William  Adolphus 
is  my  favourite  among  my  six  cats.  He  is  black, 
with  a  white  dicky  and  beautiful  white  paws. 
He  sat  up  on  the  seat  beside  me  and  looked  far 
more  like  a  gentleman  than  many  a  man  I've  seen 
in  a  similar  position. 

Alexander  Abraham's  place  was  about  three 
miles  along  the  White  Sands  road.  I  knew  the 


THE    QUARANTINE  207 

house  as  soon  as  I  came  to  it  by  its  neglected  ap- 
pearance. It  needed  paint  badly ;  the  blinds  were 
crooked  and  torn;  weeds  grew  up  to  the  very 
door.  Plainly,  there  was  no  woman  about  that 
place.  Still,  it  was  a  nice  house,  and  the  barns 
were  splendid.  My  father  always  said  that  when 
a  man's  barns  were  bigger  than  his  house  it  was  a 
sign  that  his  income  exceeded  his  expenditure. 
So  it  was  all  right  that  they  should  be  bigger; 
but  it  was  all  wrong  that  they  should  be  trimmer 
and  better  painted.  Still,  thought  I,  what  else 
could  you  expect  of  a  woman  hater? 

"But  Alexander  Abraham  evidently  knows  how 
to  run  a  farm,  even  if  he  is  a  woman  hater,"  I  re- 
marked to  William  Adolphus  as  I  got  out  and  tied 
the  pony  to  the  railing. 

I  had  driven  up  to  the  house  from  the  back 
way  and  now  I  was  opposite  a  side  door  opening 
on  the  veranda.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  go  to 
it,  so  I  tucked  William  Adolphus  under  my  arm 
and  marched  up  the  path.  Just  as  I  was  half 
way  up  a  dog  swooped  around  the  front  corner 
and  made  straight  for  me.  He  was  the  ugliest 
dog  I  had  ever  seen;  and  he  didn't  even  bark  — 
just  came  silently  and  speedily  on,  with  a  business- 
like eye. 

I  never  stop  to  argue  matters  with  a  dog  that 
doesn't  bark.  I  know  when  discretion  is  the  bet- 


208          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

ter  part  of  valour.  Firmly  clasping  William  Adol- 
phus,  I  ran  —  not  to  the  door,  because  the  dog 
was  between  me  and  it,  but  to  a  big,  low-branch- 
ing cherry  tree  at  the  back  corner  of  the  house. 
I  reached  it  in  time  and  no  more.  First  thrusting 
William  Adolphus  on  to  a  limb  above  my  head,  I 
scrambled  up  into  that  blessed  tree  without  stop- 
ping to  think  how  it  might  look  to  Alexander 
Abraham  if  he  happened  to  be  watching. 

My  time  for  reflection  came  when  I  found  my- 
self perched  half  way  up  the  tree  with  William 
Adolphus  beside  me.  William  Adolphus  was  quite 
calm  and  unruffled.  I  can  hardly  say  with  truth- 
fulness that  I  was.  On  the  contrary,  I  admit  that 
I  felt  considerably  upset. 

The  dog  was  sitting  on  his  haunches  on  the 
ground  below,  watching  us,  and  it  was  quite  plain 
to  be  seen,  from  his  leisurely  manner,  that  it  was 
not  his  busy  day.  He  bared  his  teeth  and  growled 
when  he  caught  my  eye. 

"  You  look  like  a  woman  hater's  dog,"  I  told 
him.  I  meant  it  for  an  insult ;  but  the  beast  took 
it  for  a  compliment. 

Then  I  set  myself  to  solving  the  question,"  How 
am  I  to  get  out  of  this  predicament?  " 

It  did  not  seem  easy  to  solve  it. 

"Shall  I  scream,  William  Adolphus?"  I  de- 
manded of  that  intelligent  animal.  William  Adol- 


THE    QUARANTINE  209 

phus  shook  his  head.  This  is  a  fact.  And  I  agreed 
with  him. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  scream,  William  Adolphus,"  I 
said.  "  There  is  probably  no  one  to  hear  me  ex- 
cept Alexander  Abraham,  and  I  have  my  painful 
doubts  about  his  tender  mercies.  Now,  it  is 
impossible  to  go  down.  Is  it,  then,  William  Adol- 
phus, possible  to  go  up?  " 

I  looked  up.  Just  above  my  head  was  an  open 
window  with  a  tolerably  stout  branch  extending 
right  across  it. 

"  Shall  we  try  that  way,  William  Adolphus?  " 
I  asked. 

William  Adolphus,  wasting  no  words,  began  to 
climb  the  tree.  I  followed  his  example.  The  dog 
ran  in  circles  about  the  tree  and  looked  things  not 
lawful  to  be  uttered.  It  probably  would  have 
been  a  relief  to  him  to  bark  if  it  hadn't  been  so 
against  his  principles. 

I  got  in  by  the  window  easily  enough,  and  found 
myself  in  a  bedroom  the  like  of  which  for  disorder 
and  dust  and  general  awfulness  I  had  never  seen 
in  all  my  life.  But  I  did  not  pause  to  take  in  de- 
tails. With  William  Adolphus  under  my  arm  I 
marched  downstairs,  fervently  hoping  I  should 
meet  no  one  on  the  way. 

I  did  not.  The  hall  below  was  empty  and 
dusty.  I  opened  the  first  door  I  came  to  and 


210          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

walked  boldly  in.  A  man  was  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow, looking  moodily  out.  I  should  have  known 
him  for  Alexander  Abraham  anywhere.  He  had 
just  the  same  uncared-for,  ragged  appearance  that 
the  house  had;  and  yet,  like  the  house,  it  seemed 
that  he  would  not  be  bad  looking  if  he  were 
trimmed  up  a  little.  His  hair  looked  as  if  it  had 
never  been  combed,  and  his  whiskers  were  wild 
in  the  extreme. 

He  looked  at  me  with  blank  amazement  in  his 
countenance. 

"  Where  is  Jimmy  Spencer? "  I  demanded. 
"  I  have  come  to  see  him." 

"  How  did  he  ever  let  you  in?  "  asked  the  man, 
staring  at  me. 

"  He  didn't  let  me  in,"  I  retorted.  "  He  chased 
me  all  over  the  lawn,  and  I  only  saved  myself 
from  being  torn  piecemeal  by  scrambling  up  a 
tree.  You  ought  to  be  prosecuted  for  keeping 
such  a  dog!  Where  is  Jimmy?  " 

Instead  of  answering  Alexander  Abraham  be- 
gan to  laugh  in  a  most  unpleasant  fashion. 

"  Trust  a  woman  for  getting  into  a  man's  house 
if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to,"  he  said  disagree- 
ably. 

Seeing  that  it  was  his  intention  to  vex  me  I 
remained  cool  and  collected. 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  particular  about  getting  into 


THE    QUARANTINE  211 

your  house,  Mr.  Bennett,"  I  said  calmly.  "  I 
had  but  little  choice  in  the  matter.  It  was  get 
in  lest  a  worse  fate  befall  me.  It  was  not  you  or 
your  house  I  wanted  to  see  —  although  I  admit 
that  it  is  worth  seeing  if  a  person  is  anxious  to  find 
out  how  dirty  a  place  can  be.  It  was  Jimmy.  For 
the  third  and  last  time  —  where  is  Jimmy?  " 

"  Jimmy  is  not  here,"  said  Mr.  Bennett  gruffly 
—  but  not  quite  so  assuredly.  "  He  left  last  week 
and  hired  with  a  man  over  at  Newbridge." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  said,  picking  up  William 
Adolphus,  who  had  been  exploring  the  room  with 
a  disdainful  air,  "  I  won't  disturb  you  any  longer. 
I  shall  go." 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  would  be  the  wisest  thing," 
said  Alexander  Abraham  —  not  disagreeably  this 
time,  but  reflectively,  as  if  there  was  some  doubt 
about  the  matter.  "I'll  let  you  out  by  the  back 
door.  Then  the  —  ahem !  —  the  dog  will  not  in- 
terfere with  you.  Please  go  away  quietly  and 
quickly." 

I  wondered  if  Alexander  Abraham  thought  I 
would  go  away  with  a  whoop.  But  I  said  nothing, 
thinking  this  the  most  dignified  course  of  con- 
duct, and  I  followed  him  out  to  the  kitchen  as 
quickly  and  quietly  as  he  could  have  wished. 
Such  a  kitchen! 

Alexander  Abraham  opened  the  door  —  which 


212          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

was  locked  —  just  as  a  buggy  containing  two  men 
drove  into  the  yard. 

"  Too  late!  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  tragic  tone.  I 
understood  that  something  dreadful  must  have 
happened,  but  I  did  not  care,  since,  as  I  fondly 
supposed,  it  did  not  concern  me.  I  pushed  out 
past  Alexander  Abraham  —  who  was  looking  as 
guilty  as  if  he  had  been  caught  burglarizing  — 
and  came  face  to  face  with  the  man  who  had 
sprung  from  the  buggy.  It  was  old  Dr.  Blair, 
from  Carmody,  and  he  was  looking  at  me  as  if 
he  had  found  me  shoplifting. 

"  My  dear  Peter,"  he  said  gravely,  "  I  am  very 
sorry  to  see  you  here  —  very  sorry  indeed." 

I  admit  that  this  exasperated  me.  Besides,  no 
man  on  earth,  not  even  my  old  family  doctor,  has 
any  right  to  "  My  dear  Peter  "  me! 

"  There  is  no  loud  call  for  sorrow,  doctor,"  I 
said  loftily.  "  If  a  woman,  forty-eight  years  of 
age,  a  member  of  the  Presbyterian  church  in  good 
and  regular  standing,  cannot  call  upon  one  of  her 
Sunday  School  scholars  without  wrecking  all  the 
proprieties,  how  old  must  she  be  before  she  can?  " 

The  doctor  did  not  answer  my  question.  In- 
stead, he  looked  reproachfully  at  Alexander  Abra- 
ham. 

"  Is  this  how  you  keep  your  word,  Mr.  Ben- 
nett? "  he  said.  "  I  thought  that  you  promised 


THE    QUARANTINE  213 

me  that  you  would  not  let  anyone  into  the 
house." 

"  I  didn't  let  her  in,"  growled  Mr.  Bennett. 
"  Good  heavens,  man,  she  climbed  in  at  an  up- 
stairs window,  despite  the  presence  on  my  grounds 
of  a  policeman  and  a  dog !  What  is  to  be  done  with 
a  woman  like  that?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  what  all  this  means,"  I 
said,  addressing  myself  to  the  doctor  and  ignoring 
Alexander  Abraham  entirely,  "  but  if  my  pres- 
ence here  is  so  extremely  inconvenient  to  all  con- 
cerned you  can  soon  be  relieved  of  it.  I  am  going 
at  once." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  my  dear  Peter,"  said  the 
doctor  impressively,  "  but  that  is  just  what  I  can- 
not allow  you  to  do.  This  house  is  under  quaran- 
tine for  smallpox.  You  will  have  to  stay  here." 

Smallpox!  For  the  first  and  last  time  in  my 
life  I  openly  lost  my  temper  with  a  man.  I 
wheeled  furiously  upon  Alexander  Abraham. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  "  I  cried. 

"  Tell  you!  "  he  said,  glaring  at  me.  "  When  I 
first  saw  you  it  was  too  late  to  tell  you.  I  thought 
the  kindest  thing  I  could  do  was  to  hold  my  tongue 
and  let  you  get  away  in  happy  ignorance.  This 
will  teach  you  to  take  a  man's  house  by  storm, 
madam!  " 

"  Now,  now,  don't  quarrel,  my  good  people." 


214          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

interposed  the  doctor  seriously  —  but  I  saw  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  You'll  have  to  spend  some 
time  together  under  the  same  roof  and  you  won't 
improve  the  situation  by  disagreeing.  You  see, 
Peter,  it  was  this  way.  Mr.  Bennett  was  in  town 
yesterday  —  where,  as  you  are  aware,  there  is  a 
bad  outbreak  of  smallpox  —  and  took  dinner  in 
a  boarding-house  where  one  of  the  maids  was  ill. 
Last  night  she  developed  unmistakable  symptoms 
of  smallpox.  The  Board  of  Health  at  once  got 
after  all  the  people  who  were  in  the  house  yester- 
day, so  far  as  they  could  locate  them,  and  put 
them  under  quarantine.  I  came  down  here  this 
morning  and  explained  the  matter  to  Mr.  Bennett. 
I  brought  Jeremiah  Jeffries  to  guard  the  front  of 
the  house  and  Mr.  Bennett  gave  me  his  word  of 
honour  that  he  would  not  let  anyone  in  by  the 
back  way  while  I  went  to  get  another  policeman 
and  make  all  the  necessary  arrangements.  I  have 
brought  Thomas  Wright  and  have  secured  the 
services  of  another  man  to  attend  to  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's barn  work  and  bring  provisions  to  the  house. 
Jacob  Green  and  Cleophas  Lee  will  watch  at 
night.  I  don't  think  there  is  much  danger  of  Mr. 
Bennett's  taking  the  smallpox,  but  until  we  are 
sure  you  must  remain  here,  Peter." 
*  While  listening  to  the  doctor  I  had  been  think- 
ing. It  was  the  most  distressing  predicament  I 


THE    QUARANTINE  215 

had  ever  got  into  in  my  life,  but  there  was  no 
sense  in  making  it  worse. 

"  Very  well,  doctor,"  I  said  calmly.  "  Yes,  I 
was  vaccinated  a  month  ago,  when  the  news  of 
the  smallpox  first  came.  When  you  go  back 
through  Avonlea  kindly  go  to  Sarah  Pye  and  ask 
her  to  live  in  my  house  during  my  absence  and 
look  after  things,  especially  the  cats.  Tell  her  to 
give  them  new  milk  twice  a  day  and  a  square  inch 
of  butter  apiece  once  a  week.  Get  her  to  put  my 
two  dark  print  wrappers,  some  aprons,  and  some 
changes  of  underclothing  in  my  third  best  valise 
and  have  it  sent  down  to  me.  My  pony  is  tied 
out  there  to  the  fence.  Please  take  him  home. 
That  is  all,  I  think."', 

"  No,  it  isn't  all,"  said  Alexander  Abraham 
grumpily.  "  Send  that  cat  home,  too.  I  won't 
have  a  cat  around  the  place  —  I'd  rather  have  the 
smallpox." 

I  looked  Alexander  Abraham  over  gradually, 
in  a  way  I  have,  beginning  at  his  feet  and  travel- 
ling up  to  his  head.  I  took  my  time  over  it;  and 
then  I  said,  very  quietly, 

"  You  may  have  both.  Anyway,  you'll  have  to 
have  William  Adolphus.  He  is  under  quarantine 
as  well  as  you  and  I.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going 
to  have  my  cat  ranging  at  large  through  Avonlea, 
scattering  smallpox  germs  among  innocent  people? 


216          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

I'll  have  to  put  up  with  that  dog  of  yours.  You 
will  have  to  endure  William  Adolphus." 

Alexander  Abraham  groaned,  but  I  could  see 
that  the  way  I  had  looked  him  over  had  cha- 
stened him  considerably. 

The  doctor  drove  away,  and  I  went  into  the 
house,  not  choosing  to  linger  outside  and  be 
grinned  at  by  Thomas  Wright.  I  hung  my  coat 
up  in  the  hall  and  laid  my  bonnet  carefully  on  the 
sitting-room  table,  having  first  dusted  a  clean  place 
for  it  with  my  handkerchief.  I  longed  to  fall 
upon  that  house  at  once  and  clean  it  up,  but  I  had 
to  wait  until  the  doctor  came  back  with  my  wrap- 
per. I  could  not  clean  house  in  my  new  suit  and 
a  silk  shirtwaist. 

Alexander  Abraham  was  sitting  on  a  chair  look- 
ing at  me.  Presently  he  said, 

"  I  am  not  curious  —  but  will  you  kindly  tell 
me  why  the  doctor  called  you  Peter?  " 

"  Because  that  is  my  name,  I  suppose,"  I  an- 
swered, shaking  up  a  cushion  for  William  Adol- 
phus and  thereby  disturbing  the  dust  of  years. 

Alexander  Abraham  coughed  gently. 

"  Isn't  that  —  ahem!  —  rather  a  peculiar  name 
for  a  woman?  " 

"It  is,"  I  said,  wondering  how  much  soap,  if 
any,  there  was  in  the  house. 

"  I  am  not  curious,"  said  Alexander  Abraham, 


THE    QUARANTINE  217 

"  but  would  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  came  to 
be  called  Peter?  " 

."If  I  had  been  a  boy  my  parents  intended  to 
call  me  Peter  in  honour  of  a  rich  uncle.  When  I 
—  fortunately  —  turned  out  to  be  a  girl  my 
mother  insisted  that  I  should  be  called  Angelina. 
They  gave  me  both  names  and  called  me  Angelina, 
but  as  soon  as  I  grew  old  enough  I  decided  to  be 
called  Peter.  It  was  bad  enough,  but  not  so  bad 
as  Angelina." 

"  I  should  say  it  was  more  appropriate,"  said 
Alexander  Abraham,  intending,  as  I  perceived,  to 
be  disagreeable. 

"  Precisely,"  I  agreed  calmly.  "  My  last  name 
is  MacPherson,  and  I  live  in  Avonlea.  As  you 
are  not  curious,  that  will  be  all  the  information 
you  will  need  about  me." 

"  Oh!  "  Alexander  Abraham  looked  as  if  a  light 
had  broken  in  on  him.  "  I've  heard  of  you. 
You  —  ah  -  •  pretend  to  dislike  men." 

Pretend!  Goodness  only  knows  what  would 
have  happened  to  Alexander  Abraham  just  then 
if  a  diversion  had  not  taken  place.  But  the  door 
opened  and  a  dog  came  in  —  the  dog.  I  suppose 
he  had  got  tired  waiting  under  the  cherry  tree 
for  William  Adolphus  and  me  to  come  down.  He 
was  even  uglier  indoors  than  out. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Riley,  Mr.  Riley,  see  what  you  have 


218          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

let  me  in  for,"  said  Alexander  Abraham  reproach- 
fully. 

But  Mr.  Riley  —  since  that  was  the  brute's 
name  —  paid  no  attention  to  Alexander  Abra- 
ham. He  had  caught  sight  of  William  Adolphus 
curled  up  on  the  cushion,  and  he  started  across 
the  room  to  investigate  him.  William  Adolphus 
sat  up  and  began  to  take  notice. 

"  Call  off  that  dog,"  I  said  warningly  to  Alex- 
ander Abraham. 

"  Call  him  off  yourself,"  he  retorted.  "  Since 
you've  brought  that  cat  here  you  can  protect 
him." 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  for  William  Adolphus'  sake  I 
spoke,"  I  said  pleasantly.  "  William  Adolphus 
can  protect  himself." 

William  Adolphus  could  and  did.  He  humped 
his  back,  flattened  his  ears,  swore  once,  and  then 
made  a  flying  leap  for  Mr.  Riley.  William  Adol- 
phus landed  squarely  on  Mr.  Riley's  brindled  back 
and  promptly  took  fast  hold,  spitting  and  clawing 
and  caterwauling. 

You  never  saw  a  more  astonished  dog  than  Mr. 
Riley.  With  a  yell  of  terror  he  bolted  out  to  the 
kitchen,  out  of  the  kitchen  into  the  hall,  through 
the  hall  into  the  room,  and  so  into  the  kitchen  and 
round  again.  With  each  circuit  he  went  faster 
and  faster,  until  he  looked  like  a  brindled  streak 


THE    QUARANTINE  219 

with  a  dash  of  black  and  white  on  top.  Such  a 
racket  and  commotion  I  never  heard,  and  I  laughed 
until  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes.  Mr.  Riley 
flew  around  and  around,  and  William  Adolphus 
held  on  grimly  and  clawed.  Alexander  Abraham 
turned  purple  with  rage. 

"  Woman,  call  off  that  infernal  cat  before  he 
kills  my  dog,"  he  shouted  above  the  din  of  yelps 
and  yowls. 

"  Oh,  he  won't  kill  him,"  I  said  reassuringly, 
*'  and  he's  going  too  fast  to  hear  me  if  I  did  call 
him.  If  you  can  stop  the  dog,  Mr.  Bennett,  I'll 
guarantee  to  make  William  Adolphus  listen  to 
reason,  but  there's  no  use  trying  to  argue  with  a 
lightning  flash." 

Alexander  Abraham  made  a  frantic  lunge  at 
the  brindled  streak  as  it  whirled  past  him,  with 
the  result  that  he  overbalanced  himself  and  went 
sprawling  on  the  floor  with  a  crash.  I  ran  to  help 
him  up,  which  only  seemed  to  enrage  him  further. 

"  Woman,"  he  spluttered  viciously,  "  I  wish 
you  and  your  fiend  of  a  cat  were  in  —  in  — 

"  In  Avonlea,"  I  finished  quickly,  to  save  Alex- 
ander Abraham  from  committing  profanity.  "  So 
do  I,  Mr.  Bennett,  with  all  my  heart.  But  since 
we  are  not,  let  us  make  the  best  of  it  like  sensible 
people.  And  in  future  you  will  kindly  remember 
that  my  name  is  Miss  MacPherson,  not  Woman!  " 


220          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

With  this  the  end  came  and  I  was  thankful,  for 
the  noise  those  two  animals  made  was  so  terrific 
that  I  expected  the  policeman  would  be  rushing 
in,  smallpox  or  no  smallpox,  to  see  if  Alexander 
Abraham  and  I  were  trying  to  murder  each  other. 
Mr.  Riley  suddenly  veered  in  his  mad  career  and 
bolted  into  a  dark  corner  between  the  stove  and 
the  wood-box.  William  Adolphus  let  go  just  in 
time. 

There  never  was  any  more  trouble  with  Mr. 
Riley  after  that.  A  meeker,  more  thoroughly 
chastened  dog  you  could  not  find.  William  Adol- 
phus had  the  best  of  it  and  he  kept  it. 

Seeing  that  things  had  calmed  down  and  that 
it  was  five  o'clock  I  decided  to  get  tea.  I  told 
Alexander  Abraham  that  I  would  prepare  it,  if 
he  would  show  me  where  the  eatables  were. 

"  You  needn't  mind,"  said  Alexander  Abraham. 
"I've  been  in  the  habit  of  getting  my  own  tea  for 
twenty  years." 

"  I  daresay.  But  you  haven't  been  in  the  habit 
of  getting  mine,"  I  said  firmly.  "  I  wouldn't  eat 
anything  you  cooked  if  I  starved  to  death.  If 
you  want  some  occupation  you'd  better  get  some 
salve  and  anoint  the  scratches  on  that  poor  dog's 
back." 

Alexander  Abraham  said  something  that  I  pru- 
dently did  not  hear.  Seeing  that  he  had  no  infor- 


THE    QUARANTINE  221 

mation  to  hand  out  I  went  on  an  exploring  expe- 
dition into  the  pantry.  The  place  was  awful  be- 
yond description,  and  for  the  first  time  a  vague 
sentiment  of  pity  for  Alexander  Abraham  glim- 
mered in  my  breast.  When  a  man  had  to  live  in 
such  surroundings  the  wonder  was,  not  that  he 
hated  women,  but  that  he  didn't  hate  the  whole 
human  race. 

But  I  got  up  a  supper  somehow.  I  am  noted 
for  getting  up  suppers.  The  bread  was  from  the 
Carmody  bakery  and  I  made  good  tea  and  excel- 
lent toast;  besides,  I  found  a  can  of  peaches  in 
the  pantry  which,  as  they  were  bought,  I  wasn't 
afraid  to  eat. 

That  tea  and  toast  mellowed  Alexander  Abra- 
ham in  spite  of  himself.  He  ate  the  last  crust,  and 
didn't  growl  when  I  gave  William  Adolphus  all 
the  cream  that  was  left.  Mr.  Riley  did  not  seem 
to  want  anything.  He  had  no  appetite. 

By  this  time  the  doctor's  boy  had  arrived  with 
my  valise.  Alexander  Abraham  gave  me  quite 
civilly  to  understand  that  there  was  a  spare  room 
across  the  hall  and  that  I  might  take  possession 
of  it.  I  went  to  it  and  put  on  a  wrapper.  There 
was  a  set  of  fine  furniture  in  the  room,  and  a 
comfortable  bed.  But  the  dust!  William  Adol- 
phus had  followed  me  in  and  his  paws  left  marks 
everywhere  he  walked. 


222          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Now,"  I  said  briskly,  returning  to  the  kitchen, 
"I'm  going  to  clean  up  and  I  shall  begin  with  this 
kitchen.  You'd  better  betake  yourself  to  the  sit- 
ting-room, Mr.  Bennett,  so  as  to  be  out  of  the 
way." 

Alexander  Abraham  glared  at  me. 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  my  house  meddled 
with,"  he  snapped.  "  It  suits  me.  If  you  don't 
like  it  you  can  leave  it." 

"  No,  I  can't.  That  is  just  the  trouble,"  I  said 
pleasantly.  "  If  I  could  leave  it  I  shouldn't  be 
here  for  a  minute.  Since  I  can't,  it  simply  has  to 
be  cleaned.  I  can  tolerate  men  and  dogs  when  I 
am  compelled  to,  but  I  cannot  and  will  not  toler- 
ate dirt  and  disorder.  Go  into  the  sitting-room." 

Alexander  Abraham  went.  As  he  closed  the 
door,  I  heard  him  say,  in  capitals,  "  WHAT  AN 
AWFUL  WOMAN!" 

I  cleaned  that  kitchen  and  the  pantry  adjoin- 
ing. It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  got  through,  and 
Alexander  Abraham  had  gone  to  bed  without 
deigning  further  speech.  I  locked  Mr.  Riley  in 
one  room  and  William  Adolphus  in  another  and 
went  to  bed,  too.  I  had  never  felt  so  dead  tired 
in  my  life  before.  It  had  been  a  hard  day. 

But  I  got  up  bright  and  early  the  next  morning 
and  got  a  tiptop  breakfast,  which  Alexander  Abra- 
ham condescended  to  eat.  When  the  provision 


THE    QUARANTINE  223 

man  came  into  the  yard  I  called  to  him  from  the 
window  to  bring  me  a  box  of  soap  in  the  after- 
noon, and  then  I  tackled  the  sitting-room. 

It  took  me  the  best  part  of  a  week  to  get  that 
house  in  order,  but  I  did  it  thoroughly.  I  am 
noted  for  doing  things  thoroughly.  At  the  end 
of  the  time  it  was  clean  from  garret  to  cellar. 
Alexander  Abraham  made  no  comments  on  my 
operations,  though  he  groaned  loud  and  often, 
and  said  caustic  things  to  poor  Mr.  Riley,  who 
hadn't  the  spirit  to  answer  back  after  his  drub- 
bing by  William  Adolphus.  I  made  allowances  for 
Alexander  Abraham  because  his  vaccination  had 
taken  and  his  arm  was  real  sore;  and  I  cooked 
elegant  meals,  not  having  much  else  to  do,  once 
I  had  got  things  scoured  up.  The  house  was  full 
of  provisions  —  Alexander  Abraham  wasn't  mean 
about  such  things,  I  will  say  that  for  him.  Alto- 
gether, I  was  more  comfortable  than  I  had  ex- 
pected to  be.  When  Alexander  Abraham  wouldn't 
talk  I  let  him  alone ;  and  when  he  would  I  just  said 
as  sarcastic  things  as  he  did,  only  I  said  them 
smiling  and  pleasant.  I  could  see  he  had  a  whole- 
some awe  of  me.  But  now  and  then  he  seemed 
to  forget  his  disposition  and  talked  like  a  human 
being.  We  had  one  or  two  real  interesting  conver- 
sations. Alexander  Abraham  was  an  intelligent 
man,  though  he  had  got  terribly  warped.  I  told 


224          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

him  once  I  thought  he  must  have  been  nice  when 
he  was  a  boy. 

One  day  he  astonished  me  by  appearing  at  the 
dinner  table  with  his  hair  brushed  and  a  white 
collar  on.  We  had  a  tiptop  dinner  that  day,  and 
I  had  made  a  pudding  that  was  far  too  good  for 
a  woman  hater.  When  Alexander  Abraham  had 
disposed  of  two  large  platefuls  of  it,  he  sighed  and 
said, 

"  You  can  certainly  cook.  It's  a  pity  you  are 
such  a  detestable  crank  in  other  respects." 

"  It's  kind  of  convenient  being  a  crank,"  I  said. 
"  People  are  careful  how  they  meddle  with  you. 
Haven't  you  found  that  out  in  your  own  experi- 
ence? " 

"  I  am  not  a  crank,"  growled  Alexander  Abra- 
ham resentfully.  "  All  I  ask  is  to  be  let  alone." 

"  That's  the  very  crankiest  kind  of  a  crank," 
I  said.  "  A  person  who  wants  to  be  let  alone  flies 
in  the  face  of  Providence,  who  decreed  that  folks 
for  their  own  good  were  not  to  be  let  alone.  But 
cheer  up,  Mr.  Bennett.  The  quarantine  will  be 
up  on  Tuesday  and  then  you'll  certainly  be  let 
alone  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life,  as  far  as 
William  Adolphus  and  I  are  concerned.  You  may 
then  return  to  your  wallowing  in  the  mire  and  be 
as  dirty  and  comfortable  as  of  yore." 

Alexander  Abraham  growled  again.    The  pros- 


THE    QUARANTINE  225 

pect  didn't  seem  to  cheer  him  up  as  much  as  I 
should  have  expected.  Then  he  did  an  amazing 
thing.  He  poured  some  cream  into  a  saucer  and 
set  it  down  before  William  Adolphus.  William 
Adolphus  lapped  it  up,  keeping  one  eye  on  Alex- 
ander Abraham  lest  the  latter  should  change  his 
mind.  Not  to  be  outdone,  I  handed  Mr.  Riley 
a  bone. 

Neither  Alexander  Abraham  nor  I  had  worried 
much  about  the  smallpox.  We  didn't  believe  he 
would  take  it,  for  he  hadn't  even  seen  the  girl  who 
was  sick.  But  the  very  next  morning  I  heard  him 
calling  me  from  the  upstairs  landing. 

"  Miss  MacPherson,"  he  said  in  a  voice  so  un- 
commonly mild  that  it  gave  me  an  uncanny  feel- 
ing, "  what  are  the  symptoms  of  smallpox?  " 

"  Chills  and  flushes,  pain  in  the  limbs  and  back, 
nausea  and  vomiting,"  I  answered  promptly,  for 
I  had  been  reading  them  up  in  a  patent  medicine 
almanac. 

"  I've  got  them  all,"  said  Alexander  Abraham 
hollowly. 

I  didn't  feel  as  much  scared  as  I  should  have 
expected.  After  enduring  a  woman  hater  and  a 
brindled  dog  and  the  early  disorder  of  that  house 
—  and  coming  off  best  with  all  three  —  smallpox 
seemed  rather  insignificant.  I  went  to  the  window 
and  called  to  Thomas  Wright  to  send  for  the  doctor. 


226          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

The  doctor  came  down  from  Alexander  Abra- 
ham's room  looking  grave. 

"  It's  impossible  to  pronounce  on  the  disease 
yet,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  certainty  until  the 
eruption  appears.  But,  of  course,  there  is  every 
likelihood  that  it  is  the  smallpox.  It  is  very  un- 
fortunate. I  am  afraid  that  it  will  be  difficult 
to  get  a  nurse.  All  the  nurses  in  town  who  will 
take  smallpox  cases  are  overbusy  now,  for  the 
epidemic  is  still  raging  there.  However,  I'll  go 
into  town  to-night  and  do  my  best.  Meanwhile, 
as  Mr.  Bennett  does  not  require  any  attendance 
at  present,  you  must  not  go  near  him,  Peter." 

I  wasn't  going  to  take  orders  from  any  man, 
and  as  soon  as  the  doctor  had  gone  I  marched 
straight  up  to  Alexander  Abraham's  room  with 
some  dinner  for  him  on  a  tray.  There  was  a 
lemon  cream  I  thought  he  could  eat  even  if  he  had 
the  smallpox. 

"You  shouldn't  come  near  me,"  he  growled. 
"  You  are  risking  your  life." 

"  I  am  not  going  to  see  a  fellow  creature  starve 
to  death,  even  if  he  is  a  man,"  I  retorted. 

"  The  worst  of  it  all,"  groaned  Alexander  Abra- 
ham, between  mouthfuls  of  lemon  cream,  "  is  that 
the  doctor  says  I've  got  to  have  a  nurse.  I've  got 
so  kind  of  used  to  you  being  in  the  house  that  I 
don't  mind  you,  but  the  thought  of  another  woman 


THE    QUARANTINE  227 

coming  here  is  too  much.  Did  you  give  my  poor 
dog  anything  to  eat?  " 

"  He  has  had  a  better  dinner  than  many  a 
Christian,"  I  said  severely. 

Alexander  Abraham  need  not  have  worried 
about  another  woman  coming  in.  The  doctor 
came  back  that  night  with  care  on  his  brow. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done,"  he  said. 
"  I  can't  get  a  soul  to  come  here." 

"  /  shall  nurse  Mr.  Bennett,"  I  said  with  dig- 
nity. "  It  is  my  duty  and  I  never  shirk  my  duty. 
I  am  noted  for  that.  He  is  a  man,  and  he  has 
smallpox,  and  he  keeps  a  vile  dog;  but  I  am  not 
going  to  see  him  die  for  lack  of  care  for  all 
that." 

"  You're  a  good  soul,  Peter,"  said  the  doctor, 
looking  relieved,  manlike,  as  soon  as  he  found  a 
woman  to  shoulder  the  responsibility. 

I  nursed  Alexander  Abraham  through  the  small- 
pox, and  I  didn't  mind  it  much.  He  was  much 
more  amiable  sick  than  well,  and  he  had  the  dis- 
ease in  a  very  mild  form.  Below  stairs  I  reigned 
supreme  and  Mr.  Riley  and  William  Adolphus  lay 
down  together  like  the  lion  and  the  lamb.  I  fed 
Mr.  Riley  regularly,  and  once,  seeing  him  looking 
lonesome,  I  patted  him  gingerly.  It  was  nicer 
than  I  thought  it  would  be.  Mr.  Riley  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  at  me  with  an  expression  in  his 


228          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

eyes  which  cured  me  of  wondering  why  on  earth 
Alexander  Abraham  was  so  fond  of  the  beast. 

When  Alexander  Abraham  was  able  to  sit  up 
he  began  to  make  up  for  the  time  he'd  lost  being 
pleasant.  Anything  more  sarcastic  than  that  man 
in  his  convalescence  you  couldn't  imagine.  I  just 
laughed  at  him,  having  found  out  that  that  could 
be  depended  on  to  irritate  him.  To  irritate  him 
still  further  I  cleaned  the  house  all  over  again. 
But  what  vexed  him  most  of  all  was  that  Mr. 
Riley  took  to  following  me  about  and  wagging 
what  he  had  of  a  tail  at  me. 

"  It  wasn't  enough  that  you  should  come  into 
my  peaceful  home  and  turn  it  upside  down,  but 
you  have  to  alienate  the  affections  of  my  dog," 
complained  Alexander  Abraham. 

11  He'll  get  fond  of  you  again  when  I  go  home," 
I  said  comfortingly.  "  Dogs  aren't  very  particu- 
lar that  way.  What  they  want  is  bones.  Cats 
now,  they  love  disinterestedly.  William  Adolphus 
has  never  swerved  in  his  allegiance  to  me,  although 
you  do  give  him  cream  in  the  pantry  on  the  sly." 

Alexander  Abraham  looked  foolish.  He  hadn't 
thought  I  knew  that. 

I  didn't  take  the  smallpox  and  in  another  week 
the  doctor  came  out  and  sent  the  policeman  home. 
I  was  disinfected  and  William  Adolphus  was  fumi- 
gated, and  then  we  were  free  to  go. 


THE    QUARANTINE  229 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Bennett,"  I  said,  offering  to 
shake  hands  in  a  forgiving  spirit.  "  I've  no  doubt 
that  you  are  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,  but  you  are  no 
gladder  than  I  am  to  go.  I  suppose  this  house  will 
be  dirtier  than  ever  in  a  month's  time,  and  Mr. 
Riley  will  have  discarded  the  little  polish  his 
manners  have  taken  on.  Reformation  with  men 
and  dogs  never  goes  very  deep." 

With  this  Parthian  shaft  I  walked  out  of  the 
house,  supposing  that  I  had  seen  the  last  of  it 
and  Alexander  Abraham. 

I  was  glad  to  get  back  home,  of  course;  but 
it  did  seem  queer  and  lonesome.  The  cats  hardly 
knew  me,  and  William  Adolphus  roamed  about 
forlornly  and  appeared  to  feel  like  an  exile.  I 
didn't  take  as  much  pleasure  in  cooking  as  usual, 
for  it  seemed  kind  of  foolish  to  be  fussing  over 
oneself.  The  sight  of  a  bone  made  me  think  of 
poor  Mr.  Riley.  The  neighbours  avoided  me 
pointedly,  for  they  couldn't  get  rid  of  the  fear 
that  I  might  erupt  into  smallpox  at  any  moment. 
My  Sunday  School  class  had  been  given  to  another 
woman,  and  altogether  I  felt  as  if  I  didn't  belong 
anywhere. 

I  had  existed  like  this  for  a  fortnight  when  Alex- 
ander Abraham  suddenly  appeared.  He  walked 
in  one  evening  at  dusk,  but  at  first  sight  I  didn't 
know  him  he  was  so  spruced  and  barbered  up. 


230          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

But  William  Adolphus  knew  him.  Will  you  be- 
lieve it,  William  Adolphus,  my  own  William  Adol- 
phus, rubbed  up  against  that  man's  trouser  leg 
with  an  undisguised  purr  of  satisfaction. 

"  I  had  to  come,  Angelina,"  said  Alexander 
Abraham.  "  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer." 

"  My  name  is  Peter,"  I  said  coldly,  although  I 
was  feeling  ridiculously  glad  about  something. 

"  It  isn't,"  said  Alexander  Abraham  stubbornly. 
"It  is  Angelina  for  me,  and  always  will  be.  I 
shall  never  call  you  Peter.  Angelina  just  suits  you 
exactly;  and  Angelina  Bennett  would  suit  you 
still  better.  You  must  come  back,  Angelina.  Mr. 
Riley  is  moping  for  you,  and  I  can't  get  along 
without  somebody  to  appreciate  my  sarcasms,  now 
that  you  have  accustomed  me  to  the  luxury." 

"  What  about  the  other  five  cats?  "  I  demanded. 

Alexander  Abraham  sighed. 

"  I  suppose  they'll  have  to  come  too,"  he  sighed, 
"  though  no  doubt  they'll  chase  poor  Mr.  Riley 
clean  off  the  premises.  But  I  can  live  without 
him,  and  I  can't  without  you.  How  soon  can  you 
be  ready  to  marry  me?  " 

"  I  haven't  said  that  I  was  going  to  marry  you 
at  all,  have  I?  "  I  said  tartly,  just  to  be  consist- 
ent. For  I  wasn't  feeling  tart. 

"  No,  but  you  will,  won't  you?  "  said  Alexan- 
der Abraham  anxiously.  "  Because  if  you  won't, 


THE    QUARANTINE  231 

I  wish  you'd  let  me  die  of  the  smallpox.  Do,  dear 
Angelina." 

To  think  that  a  man  should  dare  to  call  me  his 
"  dear  Angelina!  "  And  to  think  that  I  shouldn't 
mind! 

"  Where  I  go,  William  Adolphus  goes,"  I  said, 
"  but  I  shall  give  away  the  other  five  cats  for  — 
for  the  sake  of  Mr.  Riley." 


IX 

PA  SLOANE'S  PURCHASE 

"  I  GUESS  the  molasses  is  getting  low,  ain't  it?  " 
said  Pa  Sloane  insinuatingly.  "  S'pose  I'd  better 
drive  up  to  Carmody  this  afternoon  and  get  some 
more." 

"  There's  a  good  half-gallon  of  molasses  in  the 
jug  yet,"  said  Ma  Sloane  ruthlessly. 

"  That  so?  Well,  I  noticed  the  kerosene  demi- 
john wasn't  very  hefty  the  last  time  I  filled  the 
can.  Reckon  it  needs  replenishing." 

"  We  have  kerosene  enough  to  do  for  a  fort- 
night yet."  Ma  continued  to  eat  her  dinner 
with  an  impassive  face,  but  a  twinkle  made  itself 
apparent  in  her  eye.  Lest  Pa  should  see  it,  and 
feel  encouraged  thereby,  she  looked  immovably 
at  her  plate. 

Pa  Sloane  sighed.  His  invention  was  giving 
out. 

"  Didn't  I  hear  you  say  day  before  yesterday 
that  you  were  out  of  nutmegs?  "  he  queried,  after 
a  few  moments'  severe  reflection. 

232 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  233 

"I  got  a  supply  of  them  from  the  egg-pedlar 
yesterday,"  responded  Ma,  by  a  great  effort  pre- 
venting the  twinkle  from  spreading  over  her  entire 
face.  She  wondered  if  this  third  failure  would 
squelch  Pa.  But  Pa  was  not  to  be  squelched. 

"  Well,  anyway,"  he  said,  brightening  up  under 
the  influence  of  a  sudden  saving  inspiration,  "  I'll 
have  to  go  up  to  get  the  sorrel  mare  shod.  So,  if 
you've  any  little  errands  you  want  done  at  the 
store,  Ma,  just  make  a  memo  of  them  while  I 
hitch  up." 

The  matter  of  shoeing  the  sorrel  mare  was  be- 
yond Ma's  province,  although  she  had  her  own 
suspicions  about  the  sorrel  mare's  need  of  shoes. 

"  Why  can't  you  give  up  beating  about  the 
bush,  Pa?  "  she  demanded,  with  contemptuous 
pity.  "  You  might  as  well  own  up  what's  taking 
you  to  Carmody.  /  can  see  through  your  design. 
You  want  to  get  away  to  the  Garland  auction. 
That  is  what  is  troubling  you,  Pa  Sloane." 

"  I  dunno  but  what  I  might  step  over,  seeing 
it's  so  handy.  But  the  sorrel  mare  railly  does 
need  shoeing,  Ma,"  protested  Pa. 

"  There's  always  something  needing  to  be  done 
if  it's  convenient,"  retorted  Ma.  "  Your  mania 
for  auctions  will  be  the  ruin  of  you  yet,  Pa.  A 
man  of  fifty-five  ought  to  have  grown  out  of  such  a 
hankering.  But  the  older  you  get  the  worse  you 


234          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

get.  Anyway,  if  /  wanted  to  go  to  auctions  I'd 
select  them  as  was  something  like,  and  not  waste 
my  time  on  little  one-horse  affairs  like  this  of 
Garland's." 

"  One  might  pick  up  something  real  cheap  at 
Garland's,"  said  Pa  defensively. 

"  Well,  you  are  not  going  to  pick  up  anything, 
cheap  or  otherwise,  Pa  Sloane,  because  I'm  going 
with  you  to  see  that  you  don't.  I  know  I  can't 
stop  you  from  going.  I  might  as  well  try  to  stop 
the  wind  from  blowing.  But  I  shall  go,  too,  out 
of  self-defence.  This  house  is  so  full  now  of  old 
clutter  and  truck  that  you've  brought  home  from 
auctions  that  I  feel  as  if  I  was  made  up  out  of 
pieces  and  left  overs." 

Pa  Sloane  sighed  again.  It  was  not  exhilara- 
ting to  attend  an  auction  with  Ma.  She  would 
never  let  him  bid  on  anything.  But  he  realized 
that  Ma's  mind  was  made  up  beyond  the  power 
of  mortal  man's  persuasion  to  alter  it;  so  he 
went  out  to  hitch  up. 

Pa  Sloane' s  dissipation  was  going  to  auctions 
and  buying  things  that  nobody  else  would  buy. 
Ma  Sloane's  patient  endeavours  of  over  thirty 
years  had  been  able  to  effect  only  a  partial  reform. 
Sometimes  Pa  heroically  refrained  from  going  to 
an  auction  for  six  months  at  a  time;  then  he  would 
break  out  worse  than  ever,  go  to  all  that  took 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  235 

place  for  miles  around,  and  come  home  with  a 
wagonful  of  misfits.  His  last  exploit  had  been  to 
bid  in  an  old  dasher  churn  for  five  dollars  —  the 
boys  "  ran  things  up  "  on  Pa  Sloane  for  the  fun 
of  it  —  and  bring  it  home  to  outraged  Ma,  who 
had  made  her  butter  for  fifteen  years  in  the  very 
latest,  most  up-to-date  barrel  churn.  To  add  in- 
sult to  injury  this  was  the  second  dasher  churn 
Pa  had  bought  at  auction.  That  settled  it.  Ma 
decreed  that  henceforth  she  would  chaperon  Pa 
when  he  went  to  auctions. 

But  this  was  the  day  of  Pa's  good  angel. 
When  he  drove  up  to  the  door  where  Ma  was 
waiting,  a  breathless,  hatless  imp  of  ten  flew  into 
the  yard,  and  hurled  himself  between  Ma  and 
the  wagon-step. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Sloane,  won't  you  come  over  to 
our  house  at  once?  "  he  gasped.  "  The  baby,  he's 
got  colic,  and  ma's  just  wild,  and  he's  all  black 
in  the  face." 

Ma  went,  feeling  that  the  stars  in  their  courses 
fought  against  a  woman  who  was  trying  to  do 
her  duty  by  her  husband.  But  first  she  admon- 
ished Pa. 

"  I  shall  have  to  let  you  go  alone.  But  I  charge 
you,  Pa,  not  to  bid  on  anything  —  on  anything, 
do  you  hear?  " 

Pa  heard  and  promised  to  heed,  with  every 


236          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

intention  of  keeping  his  promise.  Then  he  drove 
away  joyfully.  On  any  other  occasion  Ma  would 
have  been  a  welcome  companion.  But  she  cer- 
tainly spoiled  the  flavour  of  an  auction. 

When  Pa  arrived  at  the  Carmody  store,  he 
saw  that  the  little  yard  of  the  Garland  place  below 
the  hill  was  already  full  of  people.  The  auction 
had  evidently  begun;  so,  not  to  miss  any  more 
of  it,  Pa  hurried  down.  The  sorrel  mare  could 
wait  for  her  shoes  until  afterwards. 

Ma  had  been  within  bounds  when  she  called 
the  Garland  auction  a  "  one-horse  affair."  It 
certainly  was  very  paltry,  especially  when  com- 
pared to  the  big  Donaldson  auction  of  a  month 
ago,  which  Pa  still  lived  over  in  happy  dreams. 

Horace  Garland  and  his  wife  had  been  poor. 
When  they  died  within  six  weeks  of  each  other, 
one  of  consumption  and  one  of  pneumonia,  they 
left  nothing  but  debts  and  a  little  furniture. 
The  house  had  been  a  rented  one. 

The  bidding  on  the  various  poor  articles  of 
household  gear  put  up  for  sale  was  not  brisk,  but 
had  an  element  of  resigned  determination.  Car- 
mody people  knew  that  these  things  had  to  be 
sold  to  pay  the  debts,  and  they  could  not  be  sold 
unless  they  were  bought.  Still,  it  was  a  very 
tame  affair. 
\A  woman  came  out  of  the  house  carrying  a 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  237 

baby  of  about  eighteen  months  in  her  arms,  and 
sat  down  on  the  bench  beneath  the  window. 

"There's  Marthy  Blair  with  the  Garland 
baby,"  said  Robert  Lawson  to  Pa.  "  I'd  like  to 
know  what's  to  become  of  that  poor  young  one!  " 

"  Ain't  there  any  of  the  father's  or  mother's 
folks  to  take  him?  "  asked  Pa.  - 

"  No.  Horace  had  no  relatives  that  anybody 
ever  heard  of.  Mrs.  Horace  had  a  brother;  but 
he  went  to  Manitoba  years  ago,  and  nobody 
knows  where  he  is  now.  Somebody '11  have  to 
take  the  baby  and  nobody  seems  anxious  to. 
I've  got  eight  myself,  or  I'd  think  about  it.  He's 
a  fine  little  chap." 

Pa,  with  Ma's  parting  admonition  ringing  in 
his  ears,  did  not  bid  on  anything,  although  it 
will  never  be  known  how  great  was  the  heroic 
self-restraint  he  put  on  himself,  until  just  at  the 
last,  when  he  did  bid  on  a  collection  of  flower-pots, 
thinking  he  might  indulge  himself  to  that  small 
extent.  But  Josiah  Sloane  had  been  commissioned 
by  his  wife  to  bring  those  flower-pots  home  to 
her;  so  Pa  lost  them. 

"  There,  that's  all,"  said  the  auctioneer,  wiping 
his  face,  for  the  day  was  very  warm  for  October. 

"  There's  nothing  more  unless  we  sell  the  baby." 

A  laugh  went  through  the  crowd.  The  sale 
had  been  a  dull  affair,  and  they  were  ready  for 


238          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

some  fun.  Someone  called  out,  "  Put  him  up, 
Jacob."  The  joke  found  favour  and  the  call  was 
repeated  hilariously. 

Jacob  Blair  took  little  Teddy  Garland  out  of 
Martha's  arms  and  stood  him  up  on  the  table 
by  the  door,  steadying  the  small  chap  with  one 
big  brown  hand.  The  baby  had  a  mop  of  yellow 
curls,  a  pink  and  white  face,  and  big  blue  eyes. 
He  laughed  out  at  the  men  before  him  and  waved 
his  hands  in  delight.  Pa  Sloane  thought  he  had 
never  seen  so  pretty  a  baby. 

"  Here's  a  baby  for  sale,"  shouted  the  auction- 
eer. "  A  genuine  article,  pretty  near  as  good  as 
brand-new.  A  real  live  baby,  warranted  to  walk 
and  talk  a  little.  Who  bids?  A  dollar?  Did  I 
hear  anyone  mean  enough  to  bid  a  dollar?  No, 
sir,  babies  don't  come  as  cheap  as  that,  especially 
the  curly-headed  brand." 

The  crowd  laughed  again.  Pa  Sloane,  by  way 
of  keeping  on  the  joke,  cried,  "Four  dollars!" 

Everybody  looked  at  him.  The  impression 
flashed  through  the  crowd  that  Pa  was  in  earnest, 
and  meant  thus  to  signify  his  intention  of  giving 
the  baby  a  home.  He  was  well-to-do,  and  his 
only  son  was  grown  up  and  married. 

"  Six,"  cried  out  John  Clarke  from  the  other 
side  of  the  yard.  John  Clarke  lived  at  White 
Sands  and  he  and  his  wife  were  childless. 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  239 

That  bid  of  John  Clarke's  was  Pa's  undoing. 
Pa  Sloane  could  not  have  an  enemy;  but  a  rival 
he  had,  and  that  rival  was  John  Clarke.  Every- 
where at  auctions  John  Clarke  was  wont  to  bid 
against  Pa.  At  the  last  auction  he  had  outbid 
Pa  in  everything,  not  having  the  fear  of  his 
wife  before  his  eyes.  Pa's  fighting  blood  was  up 
in  a  moment;  he  forgot  Ma  Sloane;  he  forgot 
what  he  was  bidding  for;  he  forgot  everything 
except  a  determination  that  John  Clarke  should 
not  be  victor  again. 

"  Ten,"  he  called  shrilly. 

"  Fifteen,"   shouted   Clarke. 

"  Twenty,"   vociferated   Pa. 

"  Twenty-five,"   bellowed  Clarke. 

"  Thirty,"  shrieked  Pa.  He  nearly  burst  a 
blood-vessel  in  his  shrieking,  but  he  had  won. 
Clarke  turned  off  with  a  laugh  and  a  shrug, 
and  the  baby  was  knocked  down  to  Pa  Sloane  by 
the  auctioneer,  who  had  meanwhile  been  keeping 
the  crowd  in  roars  of  laughter  by  a  quick  fire  of 
witticisms.  There  had  not  been  such  fun  at  an 
auction  in  Carmody  for  many  a  long  day. 

Pa  Sloane  came,  or  was  pushed,  forward. 
The  baby  was  put  into  his  arms ;  he  realized  that 
he  was  expected  to  keep  it,  and  he  was  too  dazed 
to  refuse;  besides,  his  heart  went  out  to  the 
child. 


240          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

The  auctioneer  looked  doubtfully  at  the  money 
which  Pa  laid  mutely  down. 

"  I  s'pose  that  part  was  only  a  joke,"  he  said. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Robert  Lawson.  "  All 
the  money  won't  be  too  much  to  pay  the  debts. 
There's  a  doctor's  bill,  and  this  will  just  about 
pay  it." 

Pa  Sloane  drove  back  home,  with  the  sorrel 
mare  still  unshod,  the  baby,  and  the  baby's  meagre 
bundle  of  clothes.  The  baby  did  not  trouble  him 
much;  it  had  become  well  used  to  strangers  in 
the  past  two  months,  and  promptly  fell  asleep 
on  his  arm;  but  Pa  Sloane  did  not  enjoy  that 
drive ;  at  the  end  of  it  he  mentally  saw  Ma  Sloane. 

Ma  was  there,  too,  waiting  for  him  on  the  back 
door-step  as  he  drove  into  the  yard  at  sunset. 
Her  face,  when  she  saw  the  baby,  expressed  the 
last  degree  of  amazement. 

"  Pa  Sloane,"  she  demanded,  "  whose  is  that 
young  one,  and  where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"I  —  I  —  bought  it  at  the  auction,  Ma," 
said  Pa  feebly.  Then  he  waited  for  the  explo- 
sion. None  came.  This  last  exploit  of  Pa's  was 
too  much  for  Ma. 

With  a  gasp  she  snatched  the  baby  from  Pa's 
arms,  and  ordered  him  to  go  out  and  put  the 
mare  in.  When  Pa  returned  to  the  kitchen  Ma 
had  set  the  baby  on  the  sofa,  fenced  him  around 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  241 

with  chairs  so  that  he  couldn't  fall  off  and  given 
him  a  molasses  cooky. 

"  Now,  Pa  Sloane,  you  can  explain,"  she  said. 

Pa  explained.  Ma  listened  in  grim  silence  until 
he  had  finished.  Then  she  said  sternly: 

"  Do  you  reckon  we're  going  to  keep  this 
baby?  " 

"I  —  I  —  dunno,"   said  Pa.     And  he  didn't. 

"  Well,  we're  not.  I  brought  up  one  boy  and 
that's  enough.  I  don't  calculate  to  be  pestered 
with  any  more.  I  never  was  much  struck  on 
children  as  children,  anyhow.  You  say  that 
Mary  Garland  had  a  brother  out  in  Manitoba? 
Well,  we  shall  just  write  to  him  and  tell  him  he's 
got  to  look  out  for  his  nephew." 

"  But  how  can  you  do  that,  Ma,  when  nobody 
knows  his  address?  "  objected  Pa,  with  a  wistful 
look  at  that  delicious,  laughing  baby. 

"  I'll  find  out  his  address  if  I  have  to  advertise 
in  the  papers  for  him,"  retorted  Ma.  "  As  for 
you,  Pa  Sloane,  you're  not  fit  to  be  out  of  a  lunatic 
asylum.  The  next  auction  you'll  be  buying  a 
wife,  I  s'pose? " 

Pa,  quite  crushed  by  Ma's  sarcasm,  pulled  his 
chair  in  to  supper.  Ma  picked  up  the  baby  and 
sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Little  Teddy 
laughed  and  pinched  her  face  —  Ma's  face !  Ma 
looked  very  grim,  but  she  fed  him  his  supper  as 


242          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

skilfully  as  if  it  had  not  been  thirty  years  since  she 
had  done  such  a  thing.  But  then,  the  woman  who 
once  learns  the  mother  knack  never  forgets  it. 

After  tea  Ma  despatched  Pa  over  to  William 
Alexander's  to  borrow  a  high  chair.  When  Pa  re- 
turned in  the  twilight,  the  baby  was  fenced  in  on 
the  sofa  again ,  and  Ma  was  stepping  briskly  about 
the  garret.  She  was  bringing  down  the  little  cot 
bed  her  own  boy  had  once  occupied,  and  setting  it 
up  in  their  room  for  Teddy.  Then  she  undressed 
the  baby  and  rocked  him  to  sleep,  crooning  an  old 
lullaby  over  him.  Pa  Sloane  sat  quietly  and 
listened,  with  very  sweet  memories  of  the  long 
ago,  when  he  and  Ma  had  been  young  and  proud, 
and  the  bewhiskered  William  Alexander  had  been 
a  curly -headed  little  fellow  like  this  one. 

Ma  was  not  driven  to  advertising  for  Mrs. 
Garland's  brother.  That  personage  saw  the  notice 
of  his  sister's  death  in  a  home  paper  and  wrote 
to  the  Carmody  postmaster  for  full  informa- 
tion. The  letter  was  referred  to  Ma  and  Ma 
answered  it. 

She  wrote  that  they  had  taken  in  the  baby, 
pending  further  arrangements,  but  had  no  inten- 
tion of  keeping  it;  and  she  calmly  demanded  of 
its  uncle  what  was  to  be  done  with  it.  Then  she 
sealed  and  addressed  the  letter  with  an  unfaltering 
hand;  but,  when  it  was  done,  she  looked  across 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  243 

the  table  at  Pa  Sloane,  who  was  sitting  in  the  arm- 
chair with  the  baby  on  his  knee.  They  were  hav- 
ing a  royal  good  time  together.  Pa  had  always 
been  dreadfully  foolish  about  babies.  He  looked 
ten  years  younger.  Ma's  keen  eyes  softened  a 
little  as  she  watched  them. 

A  prompt  answer  came  to  her  letter.  Teddy's 
uncle  wrote  that  he  had  six  children  of  his  own, 
but  was  nevertheless  willing  and  glad  to  give  his 
little  nephew  a  home.  But  he  could  not  come  after 
him.  Josiah  Spencer,  of  White  Sands,  was  going 
out  to  Manitoba  in  the  spring.  If  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sloane  could  only  keep  the  baby  till  then  he  could 
be  sent  out  with  the  Spencers.  Perhaps  they 
would  see  a  chance  sooner. 

"  There'll  be  no  chance  sooner,"  said  Pa  Sloane 
in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

"No,   worse  luck!"   retorted  Ma  crisply. 

The  winter  passed  by.  Little  Teddy  grew  and 
throve,  and  Pa  Sloane  worshipped  him.  Ma  was 
very  good  to  him,  too,  and  Teddy  was  just  as 
fond  of  her  as  of  Pa. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  spring  drew  near,  Pa  be- 
came depressed.  Sometimes  he  sighed  heavily, 
especially  when  he  heard  casual  references  to  the 
Josiah  Spencer  emigration. 

One  warm  afternoon  in  early  May  Josiah  Spen- 
cer arrived.  He  found  Ma  knitting  placidly  in 


244          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

the  kitchen,  while  Pa  nodded  over  his  newspaper 
and  the  baby  played  with  the  cat  on  the  floor. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Sloane,"  said  Josiah 
with  a  flourish.  "  I  just  dropped  in  to  see  about 
this  young  man  here.  We  are  going  to  leave  next 
Wednesday;  so  you'd  better  send  him  down  to 
our  place  Monday  or  Tuesday,  so  that  he  can  get 
used  to  us,  and  — 

"  Oh,  Ma,"  began  Pa,  rising  imploringly  to 
his  feet. 

Ma  transfixed  him  with  her  eye. 

"  Sit  down,  Pa,"  she  commanded. 

Unhappy  Pa  sat. 

Then  Ma  glared  at  the  smiling  Josiah,  who  in- 
stantly felt  as  guilty  as  if  he  had  been  caught 
stealing  sheep  red-handed. 

"  We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Spencer," 
said  Ma  icily,  "  but  this  baby  is  ours.  We  bought 
him,  and  we  paid  for  him.  A  bargain  is  a  bargain. 
When  I  pay  cash  down  for  babies  I  propose  to 
get  my  money's  worth.  We  are  going  to  keep 
this  baby  in  spite  of  any  number  of  uncles  in 
Manitoba.  Have  I  made  this  sufficiently  clear 
to  your  understanding,  Mr.  Spencer?  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly,"  stammered  the  unfor- 
tunate man,  feeling  guiltier  than  ever,  "but  I 
thought  you  didn't  want  him  —  I  thought  you'd 
written  to  his  uncle  —  I  thought  —  " 


PA    SLOANE'S    PURCHASE  245 

"  I  really  wouldn't  think  quite  so  much  if  I 
were  you,"  said  Ma  kindly.  "  It  must  be  hard 
on  you.  Won't  you  stay  and  have  tea  with  us?  " 

But,  no,  Josiah  would  not  stay.  He  was  thank- 
ful to  make  his  escape  with  such  rags  of  self- 
respect  as  remained  to  him. 

Pa  Sloane  arose  and  came  around  to  Ma's 
chair.  He  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Ma,  you're  a  good  woman,"  he  said  softly. 

"  Go  'long,  Pa,"  said  Ma. 


THE  COURTING   OF   PRISSY   STRONG 

I  WASN'T  able  to  go  to  prayer  meeting  that 
evening  because  I  had  neuralgia  in  my  face; 
but  Thomas  went,  and  the  minute  he  came  home 
I  knew  by  the  twinkle  in  his  eye  that  he  had  some 
news. 

"  Who  do  you  s'pose  Stephen  Clark  went  home 
with  from  meeting  to-night?  "  he  said,  chuckling. 

"  Jane  Miranda  Blair,"  I  said  promptly. 
Stephen  Clark's  wife  had  been  dead  for  two  years 
and  he  hadn't  taken  much  notice  of  anybody, 
so  far  as  was  known.  But  Carmody  had  Jane 
Miranda  all  ready  for  him,  and  really  I  don't 
know  why  she  didn't  suit  him,  except  for  the 
reason  that  a  man  never  does  what  he  is  expected 
to  do  when  it  comes  to  marrying. 

Thomas  chuckled  again. 

"  Wrong.  He  stepped  up  to  Prissy  Strong  and 
walked  off  with  her.  Cold  soup  warmed  over." 

"Prissy  Strong!"  I  just  held  up  my  hands. 
Then  I  laughed.  "  He  needn't  try  for  Prissy," 

246 


COURTING   OF  PRISSY  STRONG      247 

I  said.  "  Emmeline  nipped  that  in  the  bud 
twenty  years  ago,  and  she'll  do  it  again." 

"  Em'line  is  an  old  crank,"  growled  Thomas. 
He  detests  Emmeline  Strong,  and  always  did. 

"  She's  that,  all  right,"  I  agreed,  "  and  that  is 
just  the  reason  she  can  turn  poor  Prissy  any  way 
she  likes.  You  mark  my  words,  she'll  put  her 
foot  right  down  on  this  as  soon  as  she  finds  it  out." 

Thomas  said  that  I  was  probably  right.  I 
lay  awake  for  a  long  time  after  I  went  to  bed 
that  night,  thinking  of  Prissy  and  Stephen. 
As  a  general  rule  I  don't  concern  my  head  about 
other  people's  affairs,  but  Prissy  was  such  a 
helpless  creature  I  couldn't  get  her  off  my  mind. 

Twenty  years  ago  Stephen  Clark  had  tried  to 
go  with  Prissy  Strong.  That  was  pretty  soon 
after  Prissy's  father  had  died.  She  and  Emmeline 
were  living  alone  together.  Emmeline  was  thirty, 
ten  years  older  than  Prissy,  and  if  ever  there 
were  two  sisters  totally  different  from  each  other 
in  every  way,  those  two  were  Emmeline  and  Prissy 
Strong. 

Emmeline  took  after  her  father;  she  was  big 
and  dark  and  homely,  and  she  was  the  most 
domineering  creature  that  ever  stepped  on  shoe 
leather.  She  simply  ruled  poor  Prissy  with  a 
rod  of  iron. 

Prissy  herself  was  a  pretty  girl  —  at  least  most 


248          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

people  thought  so.  I  can't  honestly  say  I  ever 
admired  her  style  much  myself.  I  like  something 
with  more  vim  and  snap  to  it.  Prissy  was  slim 
and  pink,  with  soft,  appealing  blue  eyes,  and  pale 
gold  hair  all  clinging  in  baby  rings  around  her 
face.  She  was  just  as  meek  and  timid  as  she 
looked  and  there  wasn't  a  bit  of  harm  in  her.  I 
always  liked  Prissy,  even  if  I  didn't  admire  her 
looks  as  much  as  some  people  did. 

Anyway,  it  was  plain  her  style  suited  Stephen 
Clark.  He  began  to  drive  her,  and  there  wasn't 
a  speck  of  doubt  that  Prissy  liked  him.  Then 
Emmeline  just  put  a  stopper  on  the  affair.  It 
was  pure  cantankerousness  in  her.  Stephen  was 
a  good  match  and  nothing  could  be  said  against 
him.  But  Emmeline  was  just  determined  that 
Prissy  shouldn't  marry.  She  couldn't  get  married 
herself,  and  she  was  sore  enough  about  it. 

Of  course,  if  Prissy  had  had  a  spark  of  spirit 
she  wouldn't  have  given  in.  But  she  hadn't 
a  mite;  I  believe  she  would  have  cut  off  her  nose 
if  Emmeline  had  ordered  her  to  do  it.  She  was 
just  her  mother  over  again.  If  ever  a  girl  belied 
her  name  Prissy  Strong  did.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing strong  about  her. 

One  night,  when  prayer  meeting  came  out, 
Stephen  stepped  up  to  Prissy  as  usual  and  asked 
if  he  might  see  her  home.  Thomas  and  I  were 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      249 

just  behind  —  we  weren't  married  ourselves  then 
—  and  we  heard  it  all.  Prissy  gave  one  scared, 
appealing  look  at  Emmeline  and  then  said,  "  No, 
thank  you,  not  to-night." 

Stephen  just  turned  on  his  heel  and  went. 
He  was  a  high-spirited  fellow  and  I  knew  he 
would  never  overlook  a  public  slight  like  that. 
If  he  had  had  as  much  sense  as  he  ought  to  have 
had  he  would  have  known  that  Emmeline  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it ;  but  he  didn't,  and  he  began 
going  to  see  Althea  Gillis,  and  they  were  married 
the  next  year.  Althea  was  a  rather  nice  girl, 
though  giddy,  and  I  think  she  and  Stephen  were 
happy  enough  together.  In  real  life  things 
are  often  like  that. 

Nobody  ever  tried  to  go  with  Prissy  again. 
I  suppose  they  were  afraid  of  Emmeline.  Prissy's 
beauty  soon  faded.  She  was  always  kind  of  sweet 
looking,  but  her  bloom  went,  and  she  got  shyer 
and  limper  every  year  of  her  life.  She  wouldn't 
have  dared  put  on  her  second  best  dress  without 
asking  Emmeline's  permission.  She  was  real 
fond  of  cats  and  Emmeline  wouldn't  let  her  keep 
one.  Emmeline  even  cut  the  serial  out  of  the 
religious  weekly  she  took  before  she  would  give 
it  to  Prissy,  because  she  didn't  believe  in  reading 
novels.  It  used  to  make  me  furious  to  see  it  all. 
They  were  my  next  door  neighbours  after  I  married 


250          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Thomas,  and  I  was  often  in  and  out.  Sometimes 
I'd  feel  real  vexed  at  Prissy  for  giving  in  the 
way  she  did;  but,  after  all,  she  couldn't  help 
it  —  she  was  born  that  way. 

And  now  Stephen  was  going  to  try  his  luck 
again.  It  certainly  did  seem  funny. 

Stephen  walked  home  with  Prissy  from  prayer 
meeting  four  nights  before  Emmeline  found  it 
out.  Emmeline  hadn't  been  going  to  prayer 
meeting  all  that  summer  because  she  was  mad  at 
Mr.  Leonard.  She  had  expressed  her  disap- 
proval to  him  because  he  had  buried  old  Naomi 
Clark  at  the  harbour  "  just  as  if  she  was  a  Chris- 
tian," and  Mr.  Leonard  had  said  something  to 
her  she  couldn't  get  over  for  a  while.  I  don't 
know  what  it  was,  but  I  know  that  when  Mr. 
Leonard  was  roused  to  rebuke  anyone  the  person 
so  rebuked  remembered  it  for  a  spell. 

All  at  once  I  knew  she  must  have  discovered 
about  Stephen  and  Prissy,  for  Prissy  stopped 
going  to  prayer  meeting. 

I  felt  real  worried  about  it,  someway,  and  al- 
though Thomas  said  for  goodness'  sake  not  to 
go  poking  my  fingers  into  other  people's  pies,  I 
felt  as  if  I  ought  to  do  something.  Stephen 
Clark  was  a  good  man  and  Prissy  would  have 
a  beautiful  home;  and  those  two  little  boys  of 
Althea's  needed  a  mother  if  ever  boys  did.  Be- 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      251 

sides,  I  knew  quite  well  that  Prissy,  in  her  secret 
soul,  was  hankering  to  be  married.  So  was  Em- 
meline,  too  —  but  nobody  wanted  to  help  Tier 
to  a  husband. 

The  upshot  of  my  meditations  was  that  I 
asked  Stephen  down  to  dinner  with  us  from  church 
one  day.  I  had  heard  a  rumour  that  he  was  going 
to  see  Lizzie  Pye  over  at  Avonlea,  and  I  knew 
it  was  time  to  be  stirring,  if  anything  were  to 
be  done.  If  it  had  been  Jane  Miranda  I  don't 
know  that  I'd  have  bothered;  but  Lizzie  Pye 
wouldn't  have  done  for  a  stepmother  for  Althea's 
boys  at  all.  She  was  too  bad-tempered,  and  as 
mean  as  second  skimmings  besides. 

Stephen  came.  He  seemed  dull  and  moody, 
and  not  much  inclined  to  talk.  After  dinner  I 
gave  Thomas  a  hint.  I  said, 

"  You  go  to  bed  and  have  your  nap.  I  want 
to  talk  to  Stephen." 

Thomas  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went. 
He  probably  thought  I  was  brewing  up  lots  of 
trouble  for  myself,  but  he  didn't  say  anything. 
As  soon  as  he  was  out  of  the  way  I  casually  re- 
marked to  Stephen  that  I  understood  that  he 
was  going  to  take  one  of  my  neighbours  away  and 
that  I  couldn't  be  sorry,  though  she  was  an  ex- 
cellent neighbour  and  I  would  miss  her  a  great 
deal. 


252          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  You  won't  have  to  miss  her  much,  I  reckon," 
said  Stephen  grimly.  "  I've  been  told  I'm  not 
wanted  there." 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  Stephen  come  out  so 
plump  and  plain  about  it,  for  I  hadn't  expected 
to  get  at  the  root  of  the  matter  so  easily.  Stephen 
wasn't  the  confidential  kind.  But  it  really  seemed 
to  be  a  relief  to  him  to  talk  about  it ;  I  never  saw 
a  man  feeling  so  sore  about  anything.  He  told 
me  the  whole  story. 

Prissy  had  written  him  a  letter  —  he  fished  it 
out  of  his  pocket  and  gave  it  to  me  to  read. 
It  was  in  Prissy's  prim,  pretty  little  writing, 
sure  enough,  and  it  just  said  that  his  attentions 
were  "  unwelcome,"  and  would  he  be  "  kind 
enough  to  refrain  from  offering  them."  Not 
much  wonder  the  poor  man  went  to  see  Lizzie 
Pye! 

"  Stephen,  I'm  surprised  at  you  for  thinking 
that  Prissy  Strong  wrote  that  letter,"  I  said. 

"  It's  in  her  handwriting,"  he  said  stubbornly. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  '  The  hand  is  the  hand  of 
Esau,  but  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Jacob,'  "  I 
said,  though  I  wasn't  sure  whether  the  quotation 
was  exactly  appropriate.  "  Emmeline  composed 
that  letter  and  made  Prissy  copy  it  out.  I  know 
that  as  well  as  if  I'd  seen  her  do  it,  and  you  ought 
to  have  known  it,  too." 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      253 

"  If  I  thought  that  I'd  show  Emmeline  I  could 
get  Prissy  in  spite  of  her,"  said  Stephen  savagely. 
"  But  if  Prissy  doesn't  want  me  I'm  not  going 
to  force  my  attentions  on  her." 

Well,  we  talked  it  over  a  bit,  and  in  the  end 
I  agreed  to  sound  Prissy,  and  find  out  what  she 
really  thought  about  it.  I  didn't  think  it  would 
be  hard  to  do;  and  it  wasn't.  I  went  over  the 
very  next  day  because  I  saw  Emmeline  driving 
off  to  the  store.  I  found  Prissy  alone,  sewing 
carpet  rags.  Emmeline  kept  her  constantly 
at  that  —  because  Prissy  hated  it  I  suppose. 
Prissy  was  crying  when  I  went  in,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  I  had  the  whole  story. 

Prissy  wanted  to  get  married  —  and  she  wanted 
to  get  married  to  Stephen  —  and  Emmeline 
wouldn't  let  her. 

"  Prissy  Strong,"  I  said  in  exasperation,  "  you 
haven't  the  spirit  of  a  mouse!  Why  on  earth 
did  you  write  him  such  a  letter?  " 

"  Why,  Emmeline  made  me,"  said  Prissy,  as 
if  there  couldn't  be  any  appeal  from  that;  and 
I  knew  there  couldn't  —  for  Prissy.  I  also  knew 
that  if  Stephen  wanted  to  see  Prissy  again  Emme- 
line must  know  nothing  of  it,  and  I  told  him  so 
when  he  came  down  the  next  evening  —  to  borrow 
a  hoe,  he  said.  It  was  a  long  way  to  come  for  a 
hoe. 


254          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  do?  "  he  said.  "  It 
wouldn't  be  any  use  to  write,  for  it  would  likely 
fall  into  Emmeline's  hands.  She  won't  let  Prissy 
go  anywhere  alone  after  this,  and  how  am  I  to 
know  when  the  old  cat  is  away?  " 

"  Please  don't  insult  cats,"  I  said.  "  I'll 
tell  you  what  we'll  do.  You  can  see  the  venti- 
lator on  our  barn  from  your  place,  can't  you? 
You'd  be  able  to  make  out  a  flag  or  something 
tied  to  it,  wouldn't  you,  through  that  spy-glass 
of  yours?  " 

Stephen  thought  he  could. 

"  Well,  you  take  a  squint  at  it  every  now  and 
then,"  I  said.  "  Just  as  soon  as  Emmeline 
leaves  Prissy  alone  I'll  hoist  the  signal." 

The  chance  didn't  come  for  a  whole  fortnight. 
Then,  one  evening,  I  saw  Emmeline  striding  over 
the  field  below  our  house.  As  soon  as  she  was  out 
of  sight  I  ran  through  the  birch  grove  to  Prissy. 

"  Yes,  Em'line's  gone  to  sit  up  with  Jane  Law- 
son  to-night,"  said  Prissy,  all  fluttered  and 
trembling. 

"  Then  you  put  on  your  muslin  dress  and  fix 
your  hair,"  I  said.  "  I'm  going  home  to  get 
Thomas  to  tie  something  to  that  ventilator." 

But  do  you  think  Thomas  would  do  it?  Not 
he.  He  said  he  owed  something  to  his  position 
as  elder  in  the  church.  In  the  end  I  had  to  do 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG     .255 

it  myself,  though  I  don't  like  climbing  ladders. 
I  tied  Thomas'  long  red  woollen  scarf  to  the 
ventilator,  and  prayed  that  Stephen  would  see 
it.  He  did,  for  in  less  than  an  hour  he  drove 
down  our  lane  and  put  his  horse  in  our  barn. 
He  was  all  spruced  up,  and  as  nervous  and  ex- 
cited as  a  schoolboy.  He  went  right  over  to 
Prissy,  and  I  began  to  tuft  my  new  comfort  with 
a  clear  conscience.  I  shall  never  know  why  it 
suddenly  came  into  my  head  to  go  up  to  the 
garret  and  make  sure  that  the  moths  hadn't  got 
into  my  box  of  blankets;  but  I  always  believed 
that  it  was  a  special  interposition  of  Providence. 
I  went  up  and  happened  to  look  out  of  the  east 
window;  and  there  I  saw  Emmeline  Strong 
coming  home  across  our  pond  field. 

I  just  flew  down  those  garret  stairs  and  out 
through  the  birches.  I  burst  into  the  Strong 
kitchen,  where  Stephen  and  Prissy  were  sitting 
as  cozy  as  you  please. 

"  Stephen,  come  quick!  Emmeline's  nearly 
here,"  I  cried. 

Prissy  looked  out  of  the  window  and  wrung 
her  hands. 

"  Oh,  she's  in  the  lane  now,"  she  gasped. 
"  He  can't  get  out  of  the  house  without  her  see- 
ing him.  Oh,  Rosanna,  what  shall  we  do?  " 

I  really  don't  know  what  would  have  become 


256          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

of  those  two  people  if  I  hadn't  been  in  existence 
to  find  ideas  for  them. 

"  Take  Stephen  up  to  the  garret  and  hide  him 
there,  Prissy,"  I  said  firmly,  "  and  take  him 
quick." 

Prissy  took  him  quick,  but  she  had  barely 
time  to  get  back  to  the  kitchen  before  Emmeline 
marched  in  —  mad  as  a  wet  hen  because  some- 
body had  been  ahead  of  her  offering  to  sit  up 
with  Jane  Lawson,  and  so  she  lost  the  chance 
of  poking  and  prying  into  things  while  Jane  was 
asleep.  The  minute  she  clapped  eyes  on  Prissy 
she  suspected  something.  It  wasn't  any  wonder, 
for  there  was  Prissy,  all  dressed  up,  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  shining  eyes.  She  was  all  in  a  quiver 
of  excitement,  and  looked  ten  years  younger. 

"  Priscilla  Strong,  you've  been  expecting 
Stephen  Clark  here  this  evening!"  burst  out 
Emmeline.  "  You  wicked,  deceitful,  under- 
handed, ungrateful  creature!  " 

And  she  went  on  storming  at  Prissy,  who  began 
to  cry,  and  looked  so  weak  and  babyish  that  I 
was  frightened  she  would  betray  the  whole  thing. 

"  This  is  between  you  and  Prissy,  Emmeline," 
I  struck  in,  "  and  I'm  not  going  to  interfere. 
But  I  want  to  get  you  to  come  over  and  show  me 
how  to  tuft  my  comfort  that  new  pattern  you 
learned  in  Avonlea,  and  as  it  had  better  be 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      257 

done  before  dark  I  wish  you'd  come  right 
away." 

"  I  s'pose  I'll  go,"  said  Emmeline  ungraciously, 
"  but  Priscilla  shall  come,  too,  for  I  see  that  she 
isn't  to  be  trusted  out  of  my  sight  after  this." 

I  hoped  Stephen  would  see  us  from  the  garret 
window  and  make  good  his  escape.  But  I  didn't 
dare  trust  to  chance,  so  when  I  got  Emmeline 
safely  to  work  on  my  comfort  I  excused  myself 
and  slipped  out.  Luckily  my  kitchen  was  on 
the  off  side  of  the  house,  but  I  was  a  nervous 
woman  as  I  rushed  across  to  the  Strong  place 
and  dashed  up  Emmeline's  garret  stairs  to 
Stephen.  It  was  fortunate  I  had  come,  for  he 
didn't  know  we  had  gone.  Prissy  had  hidden 
him  behind  the  loom  and  he  didn't  dare  move 
for  fear  Emmeline  would  hear  him  on  that  creaky 
floor.  He  was  a  sight  with  cobwebs. 

I  got  him  down  and  smuggled  him  into  our 
barn,  and  he  stayed  there  until  it  was  dark  and 
the  Strong  girls  had  gone  home.  Emmeline 
began  to  rage  at  Prissy  the  moment  they  were 
outside  my  door. 

Then  Stephen  came  in  and  we  talked  things 
over.  He  and  Prissy  had  made  good  use  of  their 
time,  short  as  it  had  been.  Prissy  had  promised 
to  marry  him,  and  all  that  remained  was  to  get 
the  ceremony  performed. 


258          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  And  that  will  be  no  easy  matter,"  I  warned 
him.  "  Now  that  Emmeline's  suspicions  are 
aroused  she'll  never  let  Prissy  out  of  her  sight 
until  you're  married  to  another  woman,  if  it's 
years.  I  know  Emmeline  Strong.  And  I  know 
Prissy.  If  it  was  any  other  girl  in  the  world 
she'd  run  away,  or  manage  it  somehow,  but  Prissy 
never  will.  She's  too  much  in  the  habit  of  obey- 
ing Emmeline.  You'll  have  an  obedient  wife, 
Stephen  —  if  you  ever  get  her." 

Stephen  looked  as  if  he  thought  that  wouldn't 
be  any  drawback.  Gossip  said  that  Althea  had 
been  pretty  bossy.  I  don't  know.  Maybe  it 
was  so. 

"  Can't  you  suggest  something,  Rosanna? " 
he  implored.  "  You've  helped  us  so  far,  and  I'll 
never  forget  it." 

"  The  only  thing  I  can  think  of  is  for  you  to 
have  the  license  ready,  and  speak  to  Mr.  Leonard, 
and  keep  an  eye  on  our  ventilator,"  I  said. 
"  I'll  watch  here  and  signal  whenever  there's 
an  opening." 

Well,  I  watched  and  Stephen  watched,  and  Mr. 
Leonard  was  in  the  plot,  too.  Prissy  was  always 
a  favourite  of  his,  and  he  would  have  been  more 
than  human,  saint  as  he  is,  if  he'd  had  any  love 
for  Emmeline,  after  the  way  she  was  'always  try- 
ing to  brew  up  strife  in  the  church. 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      259 

But  Emmeline  was  a  match  for  us  all.  She 
never  let  Prissy  out  of  her  sight.  Everywhere 
she  went  she  toted  Prissy,  too.  When  a  month 
had  gone  by  I  was  almost  in  despair.  Mr.  Leonard 
had  to  leave  for  the  Assembly  in  another  week 
and  Stephen's  neighbours  were  beginning  to  talk 
about  him.  They  said  that  a  man  who  spent 
all  his  time  hanging  around  the  yard  with  a  spy- 
glass, and  trusting  everything  to  a  hired  boy, 
couldn't  be  altogether  right  in  his  mind. 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  saw 
Emmeline  driving  away  one  day  alone.  As  soon 
as  she  was  out  of  sight  I  whisked  over,  and  Anne 
Shirley  and  Diana  Barry  went  with  me. 

They  were  visiting  me  that  afternoon.  Diana's 
mother  was  my  second  cousin,  and,  as  we  visited 
back  and  forth  frequently,  I'd  often  seen  Diana. 
But  I'd  never  seen  her  chum,  Anne  Shirley, 
although  I'd  heard  enough  about  her  to  drive 
anyone  frantic  with  curiosity.  So  when  she 
came  home  from  Redmond  College  that  summer 
I  asked  Diana  to  take  pity  on  me  and  bring  her 
over  some  afternoon. 

I  wasn't  disappointed  in  her.  I  considered  her 
a  beauty,  though  some  people  couldn't  see  it. 
She  had  the  most  magnificent  red  hair  and  the 
biggest,  shiningest  eyes  I  ever  saw  in  a  girl's 
head.  As  for  her  laugh,  it  made  me  feel  young 


260          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

again  to  hear  it.  She  and  Diana  both  laughed 
enough  that  afternoon,  for  I  told  them,  under 
solemn  promise  of  secrecy,  all  about  poor  Prissy's 
love  affair.  So  nothing  would  do  them  but  they 
must  go  over  with  me. 

The  appearance  of  the  house  amazed  me.  All 
the  shutters  were  closed  and  the  door  locked. 
I  knocked  and  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
Then  I  walked  around  the  house  to  the  only 
window  that  hadn't  shutters  —  a  tiny  one  up- 
stairs. I  knew  it  was  the  window  in  the  closet 
off  the  room  where  the  girls  slept.  I  stopped 
under  it  and  called  Prissy.  Before  long  Prissy 
came  and  opened  it.  She  was  so  pale  and  woe- 
begone looking  that  I  pitied  her  with  all  my 
heart. 

"  Prissy,  where  has  Emmeline  gone?  "  I  asked. 

"  Down  to  Avonlea  to  see  the  Roger  Pyes. 
They're  sick  with  measles,  and  Emmeline  couldn't 
take  me  because  I've  never  had  the  measles." 

Poor  Prissy!  She  had  never  had  anything  a 
body  ought  to  have. 

"  Then  you  just  come  and  unfasten  a  shutter, 
and  come  right  over  to  my  house,"  I  said  exult- 
antly. "  We'll  have  Stephen  and  the  minister 
here  in  no  time." 

"  I  can't  —  Em'line  has  locked  me  in  here," 
said  Prissy  woefully. 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      261 

I  was  posed.  No  living  mortal  bigger  than  a 
baby  could  have  got  in  or  out  of  that  closet 
window. 

"  Well,"  I  said  finally,  "I'll  put  the  signal 
up  for  Stephen  anyhow,  and  we'll  see  what  can 
be  done  when  he  gets  here." 

I  didn't  know  how  I  was  ever  to  get  the 
signal  up  on  that  ventilator,  for  it  was  one  of 
the  days  I  take  dizzy  spells;  and  if  I  took  one 
up  on  the  ladder  there'd  probably  be  a  funeral 
instead  of  a  wedding.  But  Anne  Shirley  said 
she'd  put  it  up  for  me,  and  she  did.  I  had  never 
seen  that  girl  before,  and  I've  never  seen  her 
since,  but  it's  my  opinion  that  there  wasn't  much 
she  couldn't  do  if  she  made  up  her  mind  to  do  it. 

Stephen  wasn't  long  in  getting  there  and  he 
brought  the  minister  with  him.  Then  we  all, 
including  Thomas  —  who  was  beginning  to  get 
interested  in  the  affair  in  spite  of  himself  —  went 
over  and  held  council  of  war  beneath  the  closet 
window. 

Thomas  suggested  breaking  in  doors  and  carry- 
ing Prissy  off  boldly,  but  I  could  see  that  Mr. 
Leonard  looked  very  dubious  over  that,  and  even 
Stephen  said  he  thought  it  could  only  be  done 
as  a  last  resort.  I  agreed  with  him.  I  knew  Em- 
meline  Strong  would  bring  an  action  against  him 
for  housebreaking  as  likely  as  not.  She'd  be 


262          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

so  furious  she'd  stick  at  nothing  if  we  gave  her 
any  excuse.  Then  Anne  Shirley,  who  couldn't 
have  been  more  excited  if  she  was  getting  married 
herself,  came  to  the  rescue  again. 

"  Couldn't  you  put  a  ladder  up  to  the  closet 
window,"  she  said,  "  and  Mr.  Clark  can  go  up 
it  and  they  can  be  married  there.  Can't  they, 
Mr.  Leonard?  " 

Mr.  Leonard  agreed  that  they  could.  He  was 
always  the  most  saintly-looking  man,  but  I 
know  I  saw  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Thomas,  go  over  and  bring  our  little  ladder 
over  here,"  I  said. 

Thomas  forgot  he  was  an  elder,  and  he  brought 
the  ladder  as  quick  as  it  was  possible  for  a  fat 
man  to  do  it.  After  all  it  was  too  short  to  reach 
the  window,  but  there  was  no  time  to  go  for  an- 
other. Stephen  went  up  to  the  top  of  it,  and  he 
reached  up  and  Prissy  reached  down,  and  they 
could  just  barely  clasp  hands  so.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  look  of  Prissy.  The  window  was  so  small 
she  could  only  get  her  head  and  one  arm  out  of 
it.  Besides,  she  was  almost  frightened  to  death. 

Mr.  Leonard  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
and  married  them.  As  a  rule,  he  makes  a  very 
long  and  solemn  thing  of  the  marriage  cere- 
mony, but  this  time  he  cut  out  everything  that 
wasn't  absolutely  necessary;  and  it  was  well 


COURTING  OF  PRISSY  STRONG      263 

that  he  did,  for  just  as  he  pronounced  them  man 
and  wife  Emmeline  drove  into  the  lane. 

She  knew  perfectly  well  what  had  happened 
when  she  saw  the  minister  with  his  blue  book 
in  his  hand.  Never  a  word  said  she.  She  marched 
to  the  front  door,  unlocked  it  and  strode  upstairs. 
I've  always  been  convinced  it  was  a  mercy  that 
closet  window  was  so  small,  or  I  believe  that  she 
would  have  thrown  Prissy  out  of  it.  As  it  was, 
she  walked  her  downstairs  by  the  arm  and  ac- 
tually flung  her  at  Stephen. 

"  There,  take  your  wife,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll 
pack  up  every  stitch  she  owns  and  send  it  after 
her;  and  I  never  want  to  see  her  or  you  again 
as  long  as  I  live." 

Then  she  turned  to  me  and  Thomas. 

"  As  for  you  that  have  aided  and  abetted  that 
weak-minded  fool  in  this,  take  yourselves  out 
of  my  yard  and  never  darken  my  door  again." 

"  Goodness,  who  wants  to,  you  old  spitfire?  " 
said  Thomas. 

It  wasn't  just  the  thing  for  him  to  say,  perhaps, 
but  we  are  all  human,  even  elders. 

The  girls  didn't  escape.  Emmeline  looked 
daggers  at  them. 

"  This  will  be  something  for  you  to  carry  back 
to  Avonlea,"  she  said.  "  You  gossips  down  there 
will  have  enough  to  talk  about  for  a  spell.  That's 


264          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

all  you  ever  go  out  of  Avonlea  for  —  just  to  fetch 
and  carry  tales." 

Finally  she  finished  up  with  the  minister. 

"I'm  going  to  the  Baptist  church  in  Spencer- 
vale  after  this,"  she  said.  Her  tone  and  look  said 
a  hundred  other  things.  She  whirled  into  the 
house  and  slammed  the  door. 

Mr.  Leonard  looked  around  on  us  with  a  pity- 
ing smile  as  Stephen  put  poor,  half-fainting 
Prissy  into  the  buggy. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  in  that  gentle, 
saintly  way  of  his,  "  for  the  Baptists." 


XI 

THE  MIRACLE  AT  CARMODY 

SALOME  looked  out  of  the  kitchen  window,  and 
a  pucker  of  distress  appeared  on  her  smooth 
forehead. 

"  Dear,  dear,  what  has  Lionel  Hezekiah  been 
doing  now?  "  she  murmured  anxiously. 

Involuntarily  she  reached  out  for  her  crutch; 
but  it  was  a  little  beyond  her  reach,  having  fallen 
on  the  floor,  and  without  it  Salome  could  not 
move  a  step. 

"  Well,  anyway,  Judith  is  bringing  him  in  as 
fast  as  she  can,"  she  reflected.  "  He  must  have 
been  up  to  something  terrible  this  time;  for  she 
looks  very  cross,  and  she  never  walks  like  that 
unless  she  is  angry  clear  through.  Dear  me,  I 
am  sometimes  tempted  to  think  that  Judith  and 
I  made  a  mistake  in  adopting  the  child.  I  sup- 
pose two  old  maids  don't  know  much  about  bring- 
ing up  a  boy  properly.  But  he  is  not  a  bad  child, 
and  it  really  seems  to  me  that  there  must  be  some 
way  of  making  him  behave  better  if  we  only 
knew  what  it  was." 

265 


266          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Salome's  monologue  was  cut  short  by  the  en- 
trance of  her  sister  Judith,  holding  Lionel  Heze- 
kiah  by  his  chubby  wrist  with  a  determined  grip. 

Judith  Marsh  was  ten  years  older  than  Salome, 
and  the  two  women  were  as  different  in  appear- 
ance as  night  and  day.  Salome,  in  spite  of  her 
thirty-five  years,  looked  almost  girlish.  She  was 
small  and  pink  and  flower-like,  with  little  rings 
of  pale  golden  hair  clustering  all  over  her  head  in 
a  most  unspinster-like  fashion,  and  her  eyes  were 
big  and  blue,  and  mild  as  a  dove's.  Her  face  was 
perhaps  a  weak  one,  but  it  was  very  sweet  and 
appealing. 

Judith  Marsh  was  tall  and  dark,  with  a  plain, 
tragic  face  and  iron-gray  hair.  Her  eyes  were 
black  and  sombre,  and  every  feature  bespoke 
unyielding  will  and  determination.  Just  now  she 
looked,  as  Salome  had  said,  "  angry  clear  through," 
and  the  baleful  glances  she  cast  on  the  small  mor- 
tal she  held  would  have  withered  a  more  hardened 
criminal  than  six  happy-go-lucky  years  had  made 
of  Lionel  Hezekiah. 

Lionel  Hezekiah,  whatever  his  shortcomings, 
did  not  look  bad.  Indeed,  he  was  as  engaging  an 
urchin  as  ever  beamed  out  on  a  jolly  good  world 
through  a  pair  of  big,  velvet-brown  eyes.  He 
was  chubby  and  firm-limbed,  with  a  mop  of 
beautiful  golden  curls,  which  were  the  despair 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       267 

of  his  heart  and  the  pride  and  joy  of  Salome's; 
and  his  round  face  was  usually  a  lurking-place 
for  dimples  and  smiles  and  sunshine. 

But  just  now  Lionel  Hezekiah  was  under  a 
blight ;  he  had  been  caught  red-handed  in  guilt, 
and  was  feeling  much  ashamed  of  himself.  He 
hung  his  head  and  squirmed  his  toes  under  the 
mournful  reproach  in  Salome's  eyes.  When 
Salome  looked  at  him  like  that,  Lionel  Hezekiah 
always  felt  that  he  was  paying  more  for  his  fun 
than  it  was  worth. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  I  caught  him  doing 
this  time?  "  demanded  Judith. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  faltered  Salome. 

"  Firing  —  at  —  a  —  mark  —  on  —  the  —  hen- 
house —  door  —  with  —  new-laid  —  eggs,"  said 
Judith  with  measured  distinctness.  "  He  has 
broken  every  egg  that  was  laid  to-day  except 
three.  And  as  for  the  state  of  that  henhouse 
door  — 

Judith  paused,  with  an  indignant  gesture  meant 
to  convey  that  the  state  of  the  henhouse  door 
must  be  left  to  Salome's  imagination,  since  the 
English  language  was  not  capable  of  depicting  it. 

"  O  Lionel  Hezekiah,  why  will  you  do  such 
things?  "  said  Salome  miserably. 

"I  —  didn't  know  it  was  wrong,"  said  Lionel 
Hezekiah,  bursting  into  prompt  tears.  "I  —  I 


268          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

thought  it  would  be  bully  fun.  Seems  's  if  every- 
thing what's  fun  's  wrong." 

Salome's  heart  was  not  proof  against  tears, 
as  Lionel  Hezekiah  very  well  knew.  She  put  her 
arm  about  the  sobbing  culprit,  and  drew  him 
to  her  side. 

"  He  didn't  know  it  was  wrong,"  she  said  defi- 
antly to  Judith. 

"  He's  got  to  be  taught,  then,"  was  Judith's 
retort.  "  No,  you  needn't  try  to  beg  him  off, 
Salome.  He  shall  go  right  to  bed  without  any 
supper,  and  stay  there  till  to-morrow  morning." 

"Oh!  not  without  his  supper,"  entreated 
Salome.  "  You  —  you  won't  improve  the  child's 
morals  by  injuring  his  stomach,  Judith." 

11  Without  his  supper,  I  say,"  repeated  Judith 
inexorably.  "  Lionel  Hezekiah,  go  up-stairs  to 
the  south  room,  and  go  to  bed  at  once." 

Lionel  Hezekiah  went  up-stairs,  and  went  to 
bed  at  once.  He  was  never  sulky  or  disobedient. 
Salome  listened  to  him  as  he  stumped  patiently 
up-stairs  with  a  sob  at  every  step,  and  her  own 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Now  don't  for  pity's  sake  go  crying,  Salome," 
said  Judith  irritably.  "  I  think  I've  let  him  off 
very  easily.  He  is  enough  to  try  the  patience  of 
a  saint,  and  I  never  was  that,"  she  added  with 
entire  truth. 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       269 

"  But  he  isn't  bad,"  pleaded  Salome.  "  You 
know  he  never  does  anything  the  second  time 
after  he  has  been  told  it  was  wrong,  never." 

"  What  good  does  that  do  when  he  is  certain 
to  do  something  new  and  twice  as  bad?  I  never 
saw  anything  like  him  for  originating  ideas  of 
mischief.  Just  look  at  what  he  has  done  in  the 
past  fortnight,  —  in  one  fortnight,  Salome.  He 
brought  in  a  live  snake,  and  nearly  frightened 
you  into  fits;  he  drank  up  a  bottle  of  liniment, 
and  almost  poisoned  himself;  he  took  three  toads 
to  bed  with  him;  he  climbed  into  the  henhouse 
loft,  and  fell  through  on  a  hen  and  killed  her;  he 
painted  his  face  all  over  with  your  water-colours ; 
and  now  comes  this  exploit.  And  eggs  at  twenty- 
eight  cents  a  dozen!  I  tell  you,  Salome,  Lionel 
Hezekiah  is  an  expensive  luxury." 

"  But  we  couldn't  do  without  him,"  protested 
Salome. 

"  I  could.  But  as  you  can't,  or  think  you  can't, 
we'll  have  to  keep  him,  I  suppose.  But  the  only 
way  to  secure  any  peace  of  mind  for  ourselves, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  is  to  tether  him  in  the  yard, 
and  hire  somebody  to  watch  him." 

"  There  must  be  some  way  of  managing  him," 
said  Salome  desperately.  She  thought  Judith  was 
in  earnest  about  the  tethering.  Judith  was  gen- 
erally so  terribly  in  earnest  in  all  she  said.  "  Per- 


270          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

haps  it  is  because  he  has  no  other  employment 
that  he  invents  so  many  unheard-of  things.  If 
he  had  anything  to  occupy  himself  with  —  per- 
haps if  we  sent  him  to  school  —  " 

"  He's  too  young  to  go  to  school.  Father  al- 
ways said  that  no  child  should  go  to  school  until 
it  was  seven,  and  I  don't  mean  Lionel  Hezekiah 
shall.  Well,  I'm  going  to  take  a  pail  of  hot  water 
and  a  brush,  and  see  what  I  can  do  to  that  hen- 
house door.  I've  got  my  afternoon's  work  cut 
out  for  me." 

Judith  stood  Salome's  crutch  up  beside  her, 
and  departed  to  purify  the  henhouse  door.  As 
soon  as  she  was  safely  out  of  the  way,  Salome 
took  her  crutch,  and  limped  slowly  and  pain- 
fully to  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  She  could  not  go 
up  and  comfort  Lionel  Hezekiah  as  she  yearned 
to  do,  which  was  the  reason  Judith  had  sent  him 
up-stairs.  Salome  had  not  been  up-stairs  for 
fifteen  years.  Neither  did  she  dare  to  call  him 
out  on  the  landing,  lest  Judith  return.  Besides, 
of  course  he  must  be  punished ;  he  had  been  very 
naughty. 

"  But  I  wish  I  could  smuggle  a  bit  of  supper 
up  to  him,"  she  mused,  sitting  down  on  the  lowest 
step  and  listening.  "  I  don't  hear  a  sound.  I 
suppose  he  has  cried  himself  to  sleep,  poor,  dear 
baby.  He  certainly  is  dreadfully  mischievous; 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       271 

but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  shows  an  investigating 
turn  of  mind,  and  if  it  could  only  be  directed  into 
the  proper  channels  —  I  wish  Judith  would  let 
me  have  a  talk  with  Mr.  Leonard  about  Lionel 
Hezekiah.  I  wish  Judith  didn't  hate  ministers 
so.  I  don't  mind  so  much  her  not  letting  me  go 
to  church,  because  I'm  so  lame  that  it  would 
be  painful  anyhow ;  but  I'd  like  to  talk  with  Mr. 
Leonard  now  and  then  about  some  things.  I  can 
never  believe  that  Judith  and  father  were  right; 
I  am  sure  they  were  not.  There  is  a  God,  and 
I'm  afraid  it's  terribly  wicked  not  to  go  to  church. 
But  there,  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  would  con- 
vince Judith ;  so  there  is  no  use  in  thinking  about 
it.  Yes,  Lionel  Hezekiah  must  have  gone  to 
sleep." 

Salome  pictured  him  so,  with  his  long,  curling 
lashes  brushing  his  rosy,  tear-stained  cheek  and 
his  chubby  fists  clasped  tightly  over  his  breast 
as  was  his  habit ;  her  heart  grew  warm  and  thrill- 
ing with  the  maternity  the  picture  provoked. 

A  year  previously  Lionel  Hezekiah's  parents, 
Abner  and  Martha  Smith,  had  died,  leaving  a 
houseful  of  children  and  very  little  else.  The 
children  were  adopted  into  various  Carmody 
families,  and  Salome  Marsh  had  amazed  Judith 
by  asking  to  be  allowed  to  take  the  five-year-old 
"baby."  At  first  Judith  had  laughed  at  the 


272          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

idea;  but,  when  she  found  that  Salome  was  in 
earnest,  she  yielded.  Judith  always  gave  Salome 
her  own  way  except  on  one  point. 

"  If  you  want  the  child,  I  suppose  you  must 
have  him,"  she  said  finally.  "  I  wish  he  had  a 
civilized  name,  though.  Hezekiah  is  bad,  and 
Lionel  is  worse;  but  the  two  in  combination,  and 
tacked  on  to  Smith  at  that,  is  something  that  only 
Martha  Smith  could  have  invented.  Her  judg- 
ment was  the  same  clear  through,  from  selecting 
husbands  to  names." 

So  Lionel  Hezekiah  came  into  Judith's  home 
and  Salome's  heart.  The  latter  was  permitted 
to  love  him  all  she  pleased,  but  Judith  overlooked 
his  training  with  a  critical  eye.  Possibly  it  was 
just  as  well,  for  Salome  might  otherwise  have 
ruined  him  with  indulgence.  Salome,  who  always 
adopted  Judith's  opinions,  no  matter  how  ill 
they  fitted  her,  deferred  to  the  former's  decrees 
meekly,  and  suffered  far  more  than  Lionel  Heze- 
kiah when  he  was  punished. 

She  sat  on  the  stairs  until  she  fell  asleep  herself, 
her  head  pillowed  on  her  arm.  Judith  found  her 
there  when  she  came  in,  severe  and  triumphant, 
from  her  bout  with  the  henhouse  door.  Her  face 
softened  into  marvellous  tenderness  as  she  looked 
at  Salome. 

"  She's  nothing  but  a  child  herself  in  spite  of 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY      273 

her  age,"  she  thought  pityingly.  "  A  child  that's 
had  her  whole  life  thwarted  and  spoiled  through 
no  fault  of  her  own.  And  yet  folks  say  there  is 
a  God  who  is  kind  and  good!  If  there  is  a  God, 
He  is  a  cruel,  jealous  tyrant,  and  I  hate  Him!  " 

Judith's  eyes  were  bitter  and  vindictive.  She 
thought  she  had  many  grievances  against  the 
great  Power  that  rules  the  universe,  but  the  most 
intense  was  Salome's  helplessness  —  Salome,  who 
fifteen  years  before  had  been  the  brightest,  hap- 
piest of  maidens,  light  of  heart  and  foot,  bubbling 
over  with  harmless,  sparkling  mirth  and  life.  If 
Salome  could  only  walk  like  other  women,  Judith 
told  herself  that  she  would  not  hate  that  great 
tyrannical  Power. 

Lionel  Hezekiah  was  subdued  and  angelic  for 
four  days  after  that  affair  of  the  henhouse  door. 
Then  he  broke  out  in  a  new  place.  One  afternoon 
he  came  in  sobbing,  with  his  golden  curls  full  of 
burrs.  Judith  was  not  in,  but  Salome  dropped 
her  crochet-work  and  gazed  at  him  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  Lionel  Hezekiah,  what  have  you  gone  and 
done  now?  " 

"I  —  I  just  stuck  the  burrs  in  'cause  I  was 
playing  I  was  a  heathen  chief,"  sobbed  Lionel 
Hezekiah.  "  It  was  great  fun  while  it  lasted; 
but,  when  I  tried  to  take  them  out,  it  hurt  aw- 
ful." 


274          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

Neither  Salome  nor  Lionel  Hezekiah  ever  forgot 
the  harrowing  hour  that  followed.  With  the  aid 
of  comb  and  scissors  Salome  eventually  got  the 
burrs  out  of  Lionel  Hezekiah 's  crop  of  curls.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  decide  which  of  them  suf- 
fered more  in  the  process.  Salome  cried  as  hard 
as  Lionel  Hezekiah  did,  and  every  snip  of  the 
scissors  or  tug  at  the  silken  floss  cut  into  her  heart. 
She  was  almost  exhausted  when  the  performance 
was  over ;  but  she  took  the  tired  Lionel  Hezekiah 
on  her  knee,  and  laid  her  wet  cheek  against  his 
shining  head. 

"  Oh,  Lionel  Hezekiah,  what  does  make  you  get 
into  mischief  so  constantly?  "  she  sighed. 

Lionel  Hezekiah  frowned  reflectively. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  finally  announced,  "  unless 
it's  because  you  don't  send  me  to  Sunday 
school." 

Salome  started  as  if  an  electric  shock  had  passed 
through  her  frail  body. 

41  Why,  Lionel  Hezekiah,"  she  stammered, 
"  what  put  such  an  idea  into  your  head?  " 

"  Well,  all  the  other  boys  go,"  said  Lionel 
Hezekiah  defiantly;  "and  they're  all  better'n 
me:  so  I  guess  that  must  be  the  reason.  Teddy 
Markham  says  that  all  little  boys  should  go  to 
Sunday  school,  and  that  if  they  don't  they're 
sure  to  go  to  the  bad  place.  I  don't  see  how  you 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       275 

can  'spect  me  to  behave  well  when  you  won't 
send  me  to  Sunday  school." 

"  Would  you  like  to  go? "  asked  Salome  al- 
most in  a  whisper. 

"I'd  like  it  bully,"  said  Lionel  Hezekiah 
frankly  and  succinctly. 

"  Oh,  don't  use  such  dreadful  words,"  sighed 
Salome  helplessly.  "I'll  see  what  can  be  done. 
Perhaps  you  can  go.  I'll  ask  your  Aunt  Judith." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Judith  won't  let  me  go,"  said  Lionel 
Hezekiah  despondingly.  "  Aunt  Judith  doesn't 
believe  there  is  any  God  or  any  bad  place.  Teddy 
Markham  says  she  doesn't.  He  says  she's  an  awful 
wicked  woman  'cause  she  never  goes  to  church. 
So  you  must  be  wicked  too,  Aunt  Salome,  'cause 
you  never  go.  Why  don't  you?  " 

"  Your  —  your  Aunt  Judith  won't  let  me  go," 
faltered  Salome,  more  perplexed  than  she  had 
ever  been  before  in  her  life. 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  you  have 
much  fun  on  Sundays,"  remarked  Lionel  Heze- 
kiah ponderingly.  "  I'd  have  more  if  I  was  you. 
But  I  s'pose  you  can't  'cause  you're  ladies.  I'm 
glad  I'm  a  man.  Look  at  Abel  Blair,  what  splen- 
did times  he  has  on  Sundays.  He  never  goes  to 
church,  but  he  goes  fishing,  and  has  cock-fights, 
and  gets  drunk.  When  I  grow  up,  I'm  going  to 
do  that  on  Sundays  too,  since  I  won't  be  going  to 


276          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

church.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  church,  but  I'd 
like  to  go  to  Sunday  school." 

Salome  listened  in  agony.  Every  word  of 
Lionel  Hezekiah's  stung  her  conscience  unbear- 
ably. So  this  was  the  result  of  her  weak  yielding 
to  Judith;  this  innocent  child  looked  upon  her 
as  a  wicked  woman,  and,  worse  still,  regarded  old, 
depraved  Abel  Blair  as  a  model  to  be  imitated. 
Oh!  was  it  too  late  to  undo  the  evil?  When 
Judith  returned,  Salome  blurted  out  the  whole 
story.  "  Lionel  Hezekiah  must  go  to  Sunday 
school,"  she  concluded  appealingly. 

Judith's  face  hardened  until  it  was  as  if  cut  in 
stone. 

"  No,  he  shall  not,"  she  said  stubbornly.  "  No 
one  living  in  my  household  shall  ever  go  to  church 
or  Sunday  school.  I  gave  in  to  you  when  you 
wanted  to  teach  him  to  say  his  prayers,  though 
I  knew  it  was  only  foolish  superstition,  but  I 
sha'n't  yield  another  inch.  You  know  exactly  how 
I  feel  on  this  subject,  Salome;  I  believe  just  as 
father  did.  You  know  he  hated  churches  and 
churchgoing.  And  was  there  ever  a  better,  kinder, 
more  lovable  man?  " 

"  Mother  believed  in  God;  mother  always 
went  to  church,"  pleaded  Salome. 

"  Mother  was  weak  and  superstitious,  just  as 
you  are,"  retorted  Judith  inflexibly.  "  I  tell  you, 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       277 

Salome,  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  God.  But,  if 
there  is,  He  is  cruel  and  unjust,  and  I  hate 
Him." 

"  Judith!  "  gasped  Salome,  aghast  at  the  im- 
piety. She  half  expected  to  see  her  sister  struck 
dead  at  her  feet. 

"  Don't  '  Judith  '  me!  "  said  Judith  passion- 
ately in  the  strange  anger  that  any  discussion 
of  the  subject  always  roused  in  her.  "  I  mean 
every  word  I  say.  Before  you  got  lame  I  didn't 
feel  much  about  it  one  way  or  another;  I'd  just 
as  soon  have  gone  with  mother  as  with  father. 
But,  when  you  were  struck  down  like  that,  I 
knew  father  was  right." 

For  a  moment  Salome  quailed.  She  felt  that 
she  could  not,  dare  not,  stand  out  against  Judith. 
For  her  own  sake  she  could  not  have  done  so, 
but  the  thought  of  Lionel  Hezekiah  nerved  her 
to  desperation.  She  struck  her  thin,  bleached 
little  hands  wildly  together. 

11  Judith,  I'm  going  to  church  to-morrow," 
she  cried.  "  I  tell  you  I  am;  I  won't  set  Lionel 
Hezekiah  a  bad  example  one  day  longer.  I'll 
not  take  him;  I  won't  go  against  you  in  that, 
for  it  is  your  bounty  feeds  and  clothes  him;  but 
I'm  going  myself." 

"  If  you  do,  Salome  Marsh,  I'll  never  forgive 
you,"  said  Judith,  her  harsh  face  dark  with  anger; 


278          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

and  then,  not  trusting  herself  to  discuss  the  sub- 
ject any  longer,  she  went  out. 

Salome  dissolved  into  her  ready  tears,  and  cried 
most  of  the  night.  But  her  resolution  did  not  fail. 
Go  to  church  she  would,  for  that  dear  baby's  sake. 

Judith  would  not  speak  to  her  at  breakfast, 
and  this  almost  broke  Salome's  heart;  but  she 
dared  not  yield.  After  breakfast  she  limped  pain- 
fully into  her  room,  and  still  more  painfully 
dressed  herself.  When  she  was  ready,  she  took 
a  little  old  worn  Bible  out  of  her  box.  It  had  been 
her  mother's,  and  Salome  read  a  chapter  in  it 
every  night,  although  she  never  dared  to  let 
Judith  see  her  doing  it. 

When  she  limped  out  into  the  kitchen,  Judith 
looked  up  with  a  hard  face.  A  flame  of  sullen 
anger  glowed  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  she  went  into 
the  sitting-room  and  shut  the  door,  as  if  by  that 
act  she  were  shutting  her  sister  for  evermore  out 
of  her  heart  and  life.  Salome,  strung  up  to  the 
last  pitch  of  nervous  tension,  felt  intuitively  the 
significance  of  that  closed  door.  For  a  moment 
she  wavered  —  oh,  she  could  not  go  against 
Judith !  She  was  all  but  turning  back  to  her  room 
when  Lionel  Hezekiah  came  running  in,  and 
paused  to  look  at  her  admiringly. 

"  You  look  just  bully,  Aunt  Salome,"  he  said. 
"  Where  are  you  going?  " 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       279 

"  Don't  use  that  word,  Lionel  Hezekiah," 
pleaded  Salome.  "I'm  going  to  church." 

"  Take  me  with  you,"  said  Lionel  Hezekiah 
promptly.  Salome  shook  her  head. 

"  I  can't,  dear.  Your  Aunt  Judith  wouldn't 
like  it.  Perhaps  she  will  let  you  go  after  a  while. 
Now  do  be  a  good  boy  while  I  am  away,  won't 
you?  Don't  do  any  naughty  things." 

"  I  won't  do  them  if  I  know  they're  naughty," 
conceded  Lionel  Hezekiah.  "  But  that's  just 
the  trouble;  I  don't  know  what's  naughty  and 
what  ain't.  Prob'ly  if  I  went  to  Sunday  school 
I'd  find  out." 

Salome  limped  out  of  the  yard  and  down  the 
lane  bordered  by  its  asters  and  goldenrod.  For- 
tunately the  church  was  just  outside  the  lane, 
across  the  main  road;  but  Salome  found  it  hard 
to  cover  even  that  short  distance.  She  felt  al- 
most exhausted  when  she  reached  the  church 
and  toiled  painfully  up  the  aisle  to  her  mother's 
old  pew.  She  laid  her  crutch  on  the  seat,  and  sank 
into  the  corner  by  the  window  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

She  had  elected  to  come  early  so  that  she  might 
get  there  before  the  rest  of  the  people.  The 
church  was  as  yet  empty,  save  for  a  class  of  Sun- 
day school  children  and  their  teacher  in  a  remote 
corner,  who  paused  midway  in  their  lesson  to 


280          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

stare  with  amazement  at  the  astonishing  sight 
of  Salome  Marsh  limping  into  church. 

The  big  building,  shadowy  from  the  great  elms 
around  it,  was  very  still.  A  faint  murmur  came 
from  the  closed  room  behind  the  pulpit  where 
the  rest  of  the  Sunday  school  was  assembled. 
In  front  of  the  pulpit  was  a  stand  bearing  tall 
white  geraniums  in  luxuriant  blossom.  The  light 
fell  through  the  stained-glass  window  in  a  soft 
tangle  of  hues  upon  the  floor.  Salome  felt  a  sense 
of  peace  and  happiness  fill  her  heart.  Even 
Judith's  anger  lost  its  importance.  She  leaned 
her  head  against  the  window-sill,  and  gave  herself 
up  to  the  flood  of  tender  old  recollections  that 
swept  over  her. 

Memory  went  back  to  the  years  of  her  childhood 
when  she  had  sat  in  this  pew  every  Sunday  with 
her  mother.  Judith  had  come  then,  too,  always 
seeming  grown  up  to  Salome  by  reason  of  her  ten 
years'  seniority.  Her  tall,  dark,  reserved  father 
never  came.  Salome  knew  that  the  Carmody  peo- 
ple called  him  an  infidel,  and  looked  upon  him  as 
a  very  wicked  man.  But  he  had  not  been  wicked; 
he  had  been  good  and  kind  in  his  own  odd  way. 

The  gentle  little  mother  had  died  when  Salome 
was  ten  years  old,  but  so  loving  and  tender  was 
Judith's  care  that  the  child  did  not  miss  anything 
out  of  her  life.  Judith  Marsh  loved  her  little 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       281 

sister  with  an  intensity  that  was  maternal.  She 
herself  was  a  plain,  repellent  girl,  liked  by  few, 
sought  after  by  no  man;  but  she  was  determined 
that  Salome  should  have  everything  that  she 
had  missed  —  admiration,  friendship,  love.  She 
would  have  a  vicarious  youth  in  Salome's. 

All  went  according  to  Judith's  planning  until 
Salome  was  eighteen,  and  then  trouble  after 
trouble  came.  Their  father,  whom  Judith  had 
understood  and  passionately  loved,  died;  Salome's 
young  lover ^  was  killed  in  a  railroad  accident; 
and  finally  Salome  herself  developed  symptoms 
of  the  hip-disease  which,  springing  from  a  trifling 
injury,  eventually  left  her  a  cripple.  Everything 
possible  was  done  for  her.  Judith,  falling  heir 
to  a  snug  little  fortune  by  the  death  of  the  old 
aunt  for  whom  she  was  named,  spared  nothing 
to  obtain  the  best  medical  skill,  and  in  vain. 
One  and  all,  the  great  doctors  failed. 

Judith  had  borne  her  father's  death  bravely 
enough  in  spite  of  her  agony  of  grief;  she  had 
watched  her  sister  pining  and  fading  with  the 
pain  of  her  broken  heart  without  growing  bitter; 
but  when  she  knew  at  last  that  Salome  would 
never  walk  again  save  as  she  hobbled  painfully 
about  on  her  crutch,  the  smouldering  revolt 
in  her  soul  broke  its  bounds,  and  overflowed  her 
nature  in  a  passionate  rebellion  against  the  Being 


282          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

who  had  sent,  or  had  failed  to  prevent,  these 
calamities.  She  did  not  rave  or  denounce  wildly; 
that  was  not  Judith's  way;  but  she  never  went 
to  church  again,  and  it  soon  became  an  accepted 
fact  in  Carmody  that  Judith  Marsh  was  as  rank 
an  infidel  as  her  father  had  been  before  her;  nay, 
worse,  since  she  would  not  even  allow  Salome  to 
go  to  church,  and  shut  the  door  in  the  minister's 
face  when  he  went  to  see  her. 

"  I  should  have  stood  out  against  her  for 
conscience'  sake,"  reflected  Salome  in  her  pew 
self -reproachfully.  "  But,  O  dear,  I'm  afraid 
she'll  never  forgive  me,  and  how  can  I  live  if 
she  doesn't?  But  I  must  endure  it  for  Lionel 
Hezekiah's  sake;  my  weakness  has  perhaps  done 
him  great  harm  already.  They  say  that  what 
a  child  learns  in  the  first  seven  years  never  leaves 
him;  so  Lionel  Hezekiah  has  only  another  year 
to  get  set  right  about  these  things.  Oh,  if  I've 
left  it  till  too  late!  " 

When  the  people  began  to  come  in,  Salome 
felt  painfully  the  curious  glances  directed  at  her. 
Look  where  she  would,  she  met  them,  unless 
she  looked  out  of  the  window;  so  out  of  the  win- 
dow she  did  look  unswervingly,  her  delicate  lit- 
tle face  burning  crimson  with  self-consciousness. 
She  could  see  her  home  and  its  back  yard  plainly, 
with  Lionel  Hezekiah  making  mud-pies  joyfully 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       283 

in  the  corner.  Presently  she  saw  Judith  come  out 
of  the  house  and  stride  away  to  the  pine  wood 
behind  it.  Judith  always  betook  herself  to  the 
pines  in  time  of  mental  stress  and  strain. 

Salome  could  see  the  sunlight  shining  on  Lio- 
nel Hezekiah's  bare  head  as  he  mixed  his  pies. 
In  the  pleasure  of  watching  him  she  forgot  where 
she  was  and  the  curious  eyes  turned  on  her. 

Suddenly  Lionel  Hezekiah  ceased  concocting 
pies,  and  betook  himself  to  the  corner  of  the  sum- 
mer kitchen,  where  he  proceeded  to  climb  up  to 
the  top  of  the  storm-fence  and  from  there  to 
mount  the  sloping  kitchen  roof.  Salome  clasped 
her  hands  in  agony.  What  if  the  child  should 
fall?  Oh!  why  had  Judith  gone  away  and  left 
him  alone?  What  if  —  what  if  —  and  then, 
while  her  brain  with  lightning-like  rapidity 
pictured  forth  a  dozen  possible  catastrophes, 
something  really  did  happen.  Lionel  Hezekiah 
slipped,  sprawled  wildly,  slid  down,  and  fell  off 
the  roof,  in  a  bewildering  whirl  of  arms  and  legs, 
plump  into  the  big  rain-water  hogshead  under 
the  spout,  which  was  generally  full  to  the  brim 
with  rain-water,  a  hogshead  big  and  deep  enough 
to  swallow  up  half  a  dozen  small  boys  who  went 
climbing  kitchen  roofs  on  a  Sunday. 

Then  something  took  place  that  is  talked  of 
in  Carmody  to  this  day,  and  even  fiercely  wrangled 


284          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

over,  so  many  and  conflicting  are  the  opinions 
on  the  subject.  Salome  Marsh,  who  had  not 
walked  a  step  without  assistance  for  fifteen  years, 
suddenly  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  shriek,  ran 
down  the  aisle,  and  out  of  the  door! 

Every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  Carmody 
church  followed  her,  even  to  the  minister,  who 
had  just  announced  his  text.  When  they  got  out, 
Salome  was  already  half-way  up  her  lane,  running 
wildly.  In  her  heart  was  room  for  but  one  ag- 
onized thought.  Would  Lionel  Hezekiah  be 
drowned  before  she  reached  him? 

She  opened  the  gate  of  the  yard,  and  panted 
across  it  just  as  a  tall,  grim-faced  woman  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  house  and  stood  rooted 
to  the  ground  in  astonishment  at  the  sight  that 
met  her  eyes. 

But  Salome  saw  nobody.  She  flung  herself 
against  the  hogshead,  and  looked  in,  sick  with 
terror  at  what  she  might  see.  What  she  did  see 
was  Lionel  Hezekiah  sitting  on  the  bottom  of  the 
hogshead  in  water  that  came  only  to  his  waist. 
He  was  looking  rather  dazed  and  bewildered, 
but  was  apparently  quite  uninjured. 

The  yard  was  full  of  people,  but  nobody  had 
as  yet  said  a  word;  awe  and  wonder  held  every- 
body in  spellbound  silence.  Judith  was  the  first  to 
speak.  She  pushed  through  the  crowd  to  Salome. 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       285 

Her  face  was  blanched  to  a  deadly  whiteness; 
and  her  eyes,  as  Mrs.  William  Blair  afterwards 
declared,  were  enough  to  give  a  body  the  creeps. 

"  Salome,"  she  said  in  a  high,  shrill,  unnatural 
voice,  "  where  is  your  crutch?  " 

Salome  came  to  herself  at  the  question.  For 
the  first  time  she  realized  that  she  had  walked, 
nay,  run,  all  that  distance  from  the  church  alone 
and  unaided.  She  turned  pale,  swayed,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  Judith  had  not  caught  her. 

Old  Dr.  Blair  came  forward  briskly. 

"  Carry  her  in,"  he  said,  "  and  don't  all  of 
you  come  crowding  in,  either.  She  wants  quiet 
and  rest  for  a  spell." 

Most  of  the  people  obediently  returned  to 
the  church,  their  suddenly  loosened  tongues 
clattering  in  voluble  excitement.  A  few  women 
assisted  Judith  to  carry  Salome  in  and  lay  her 
on  the  kitchen  lounge,  followed  by  the  doctor 
and  the  dripping  Lionel  Hezekiah,  whom  the  min- 
ister had  lifted  out  of  the  hogshead  and  to  whom 
nobody  now  paid  the  slightest  attention. 

Salome  faltered  out  her  story,  and  her  hearers 
listened  with  varying  emotions. 

"  It's  a  miracle,"  said  Sam  Lawson  in  an 
awed  voice. 

Dr.  Blair  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  There  is  no  miracle  about  it,"  he  said  bluntly. 


286          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  It's  all  perfectly  natural.  The  disease  in  the 
hip  has  evidently  been  quite  well  for  a  long  time ; 
Nature  does  sometimes  work  cures  like  that  when 
she  is  let  alone.  The  trouble  was  that  the  muscles 
were  paralyzed  by  long  disuse.  That  paralysis 
was  overcome  by  the  force  of  a  strong  and  in- 
stinctive effort.  Salome,  get  up  and  walk  across 
the  kitchen." 

Salome  obeyed.  She  walked  across  the 
kitchen  and  back,  slowly,  stiffly,  falteringly, 
now  that  the  stimulus  of  frantic  fear  was  spent ; 
but  still  she  walked.  The  doctor  nodded  his 
satisfaction. 

"  Keep  that  up  every  day.  Walk  as  much  as 
you  can  without  tiring  yourself,  and  you'll  soon 
be  as  spry  as  ever.  No  more  need  of  crutches 
for  you,  but  there's  no  miracle  in  the  case." 

Judith  Marsh  turned  to  him.  She  had  not 
spoken  a  word  since  her  question  concerning 
Salome's  crutch.  Now  she  said  passionately: 

"  It  was  a  miracle.  God  has  worked  it  to  prove 
His  existence  to  me,  and  I  accept  the  proof." 

The  old  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  again. 
Being  a  wise  man,  he  knew  when  to  hold  his 
tongue. 

"  Well,  put  Salome  to  bed,  and  let  her  sleep 
the  rest  of  the  day.  She's  worn  out.  And  for 
pity's  sake  let  some  one  take  that  poor  child  and 


THE    MIRACLE    AT    CARMODY       287 

put  some  dry  clothes  on  him  before  he  catches 
his  death  of  cold." 

That  evening,  as  Salome  Marsh  lay  in  her  bed 
in  a  glory  of  sunset  light,  her  heart  filled  with 
unutterable  gratitude  and  happiness,  Judith  came 
into  the  room.  She  wore  her  best  hat  and  dress, 
and  she  held  Lionel  Hezekiah  by  the  hand.  Lio- 
nel Hezekiah's  beaming  face  was  scrubbed  clean, 
and  his  curls  fell  in  beautiful  sleekness  over  the 
lace  collar  of  his  velvet  suit. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now,  Salome?  "  asked  Judith 
gently. 

"  Better.  I've  had  a  lovely  sleep.  But  where 
are  you  going,  Judith?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  church,"  said  Judith  firmly, 
"  and  I  am  going  to  take  Lionel  Hezekiah  with 
me." 


XII 

THE  END  OF  A  QUARREL 

NANCY  ROGERSON  sat  down  on  Louisa  Shaw's 
front  doorstep  and  looked  about  her,  drawing  a 
long  breath  of  delight  that  seemed  tinged  with 
pain.  Everything  was  very  much  the  same;  the 
square  garden  was  as  square  as  ever,  and  as  dis- 
orderly, with  the  same  old  charming  hodge-podge 
of  fruit  and  flowers,  and  gooseberry  bushes  and 
tiger  lilies,  a  gnarled  old  apple  tree  sticking  up 
here  and  there,  and  a  thick  cherry  copse  at  the 
foot.  Behind  was  a  row  of  pointed  firs,  coming 
out  darkly  against  the  swimming  pink  sunset 
sky,  not  looking  a  day  older  than  they  had  looked 
twenty  years  ago,  when  Nancy  had  been  a  young 
girl  walking  and  dreaming  in  their  shadows.  The 
old  willow  to  the  left  was  as  big  and  sweeping  and, 
Nancy  thought  with  a  little  shudder,  probably  as 
caterpillary,  as  ever.  Nancy  had  learned  many 
things  in  her  twenty  years  of  exile  from  Avonlea, 
but  she  had  never  learned  to  conquer  her  dread 
of  caterpillars. 

288 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          289 

"  Nothing  is  much  changed,  Louisa,"  she  said, 
propping  her  chin  on  her  plump  white  hands,  and 
sniffing  at  the  delectable  odour  of  the  bruised  mint 
upon  which  Louisa  was  trampling.  "I'm  glad; 
I  was  afraid  to  come  back  for  fear  you  would  have 
improved  the  old  garden  out  of  existence,  or  else 
into  some  prim,  orderly  lawn  which  would  have 
been  worse.  It's  as  magnificently  untidy  as  ever, 
and  the  fence  still  wobbles.  It  can't  be  the  same 
fence,  but  it  looks  exactly  like  it.  No,  nothing  is 
much  changed.  Thank  you,  Louisa." 

Louisa  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  Nancy 
was  thanking  her  for,  but  then  she  had  never  been 
able  to  fathom  Nancy,  much  as  she  had  always 
liked  her  in  the  old  girlhood  days  that  now  seemed 
much  further  away  to  Louisa  than  they  did  to 
Nancy.  Louisa  was  separated  from  them  by  the 
fulness  of  wifehood  and  motherhood,  while  Nancy 
looked  back  only  over  the  narrow  gap  that  empty 
years  make. 

"  You  haven't  changed  much  yourself,  Nancy," 
she  said,  looking  admiringly  at  Nancy's  trim 
figure,  in  the  nurse's  uniform  she  had  donned  to 
show  Louisa  what  it  was  like,  her  firm,  pink-and 
white  face  and  the  glossy  waves  of  her  golden 
brown  hair.  "  You've  held  your  own  wonderfully 
well." 

"  Haven't     I? "     said    Nancy     complacently. 


290          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Modern  methods  of  massage  and  cold  cream 
have  kept  away  the  crowsfeet,  and  fortunately  I 
had  the  Rogerson  complexion  to  start  with.  You 
wouldn't  think  I  was  really  thirty-eight,  would 
you?  Thirty-eight!  Twenty  years  ago  I  thought 
anybody  who  was  thirty-eight  was  a  perfect  female 
Methuselah.  And  now  I  feel  so  horribly,  ridicu- 
lously young,  Louisa.  Every  morning  when  I 
get  up  I  have  to  say  solemnly  to  myself  three 
times,  '  You're  an  old  maid,  Nancy  Rogerson,' 
to  tone  myself  down  to  anything  like  a  becoming 
attitude  for  the  day." 

"  I  guess  you  don't  mind  being  an  old  maid 
much,"  said  Louisa,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
She  would  not  have  been  an  old  maid  herself  for 
anything;  yet  she  inconsistently  envied  Nancy 
her  freedom,  her  wide  life  in  the  world,  her  un- 
lined  brow,  and  care-free  lightness  of  spirit. 

"  Oh,  but  I  do  mind,"  said  Nancy  frankly.  "  I 
hate  being  an  old  maid." 

11  Why  don't  you  get  married,  then?  "  asked 
Louisa,  paying  an  unconscious  tribute  to  Nancy's 
perennial  chance  by  her  use  of  the  present  tense. 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  that  wouldn't  suit  me  either.  I  don't 
want  to  be  married.  Do  you  remember  that  story 
Anne  Shirley  used  to  tell  long  ago  of  the  pupil 
who  wanted  to  be  a  widow  because  '  if  you  were 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          291 

married  your  husband  bossed  you  and  if  you 
weren't  married  people  called  you  an  old  maid  ?  ' 
Well,  that  is  precisely  my  opinion.  I'd  like  to 
be  a  widow.  Then  I'd  have  the  freedom  of  the 
unmarried,  with  the  kudos  of  the  married.  I 
could  eat  my  cake  and  have  it,  too.  Oh,  to  be 
a  widow!  " 

"  Nancy!"  said  Louisa  in  a  shocked  tone. 

Nancy  laughed,  a  mellow  gurgle  that  rippled 
through  the  garden  like  a  brook. 

"  Oh,  Louisa,  I  can  shock  you  yet.  That  was 
just  how  you  used  to  say  '  Nancy '  long  ago,  as 
if  I'd  broken  all  the  commandments  at  once." 

"  You  do  say  such  queer  things,"  protested 
Louisa,  "  and  half  the  time  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

"  Bless  you,  dear  coz.,  half  the  time  I  don't 
myself.  Perhaps  the  joy  of  coming  back  to  the 
old  spot  has  slightly  turned  my  brain.  I've  found 
my  lost  girlhood  here.  I'm  not  thirty-eight  in 
this  garden  —  it  is  a  flat  impossibility.  I'm  sweet 
eighteen,  with  a  waist  line  two  inches  smaller. 
Look,  the  sun  is  just  setting.  I  see  he  has  still 
his  old  trick  of  throwing  his  last  beams  over  the 
Wright  farmhouse.  By  the  way,  Louisa,  is  Peter 
Wright  still  living  there?  " 

"  Yes."  Louisa  threw  a  suddenly  interested 
glance  at  the  apparently  placid  Nancy. 


292          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  Married,  I  suppose,  with  half  a  dozen  chil- 
dren? "  said  Nancy  indifferently,  pulling  up 
some  more  sprigs  of  mint  and  pinning  them  on  her 
breast.  Perhaps  the  exertion  of  leaning  over  to 
do  it  flushed  her  face.  There  was  more  than  the 
Rogerson  colour  in  it,  anyhow,  and  Louisa,  slow 
though  her  mental  processes  might  be  in  some  re- 
spects, thought  she  understood  the  meaning  of 
a  blush  as  well  as  the  next  one.  All  the  instinct 
of  the  matchmaker  flamed  up  in  her. 

"  Indeed  he  isn't,"  she  said  promptly.  "  Peter 
Wright  has  never  married.  He  has  been  faithful 
to  your  memory,  Nancy." 

"  Ugh!  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  buried 
up  there  in  the  Avonlea  cemetery  and  had  a  mon- 
ument over  me  with  a  weeping  willow  carved  on 
it,"  shivered  Nancy.  "  When  it  is  said  that  a 
man  has  been  faithful  to  a  woman's  memory  it 
generally  means  that  he  couldn't  get  anyone  else 
to  take  him." 

"  That  isn't  the  case  with  Peter,"  protested 
Louisa.  "He  is  a  good  match,  and  many  a 
woman  would  have  been  glad  to  take  him,  and 
would  yet.  He's  only  forty-three.  But  he's 
never  taken  the  slightest  interest  in  anyone  since 
you  threw  him  over,  Nancy." 

"  But  I  didn't.  He  threw  me  over,"  said 
Nancy,  plaintively,  looking  afar  over  the  low- 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          293 

lying  fields  and  a  feathery  young  spruce  valley 
to  the  white  buildings  of  the  Wright  farm,  glowing 
rosily  in  the  sunset  light  when  all  the  rest  of  Avon- 
lea  was  scarfing  itself  in  shadows.  There  was 
laughter  in  her  eyes.  Louisa  could  not  pierce 
beneath  that  laughter  to  find  if  there  were  any- 
thing under  it. 

"  Fudge!  "  said  Louisa.  "  What  on  earth  did 
you  and  Peter  quarrel  about?  "  she  added,  curi- 
ously. 

"  I've  often  wondered,"  parried  Nancy. 

"  And  you've  never  seen  him  since?  "  reflected 
Louisa. 

"  No.     Has  he  changed  much?  " 

"  Well,  some.  He  is  gray  and  kind  of  tired- 
looking.  But  it  isn't  to  be  wondered  at  —  living 
the  life  he  does.  He  hasn't  had  a  housekeeper  for 
two  years  —  not  since  his  old  aunt  died.  He  just 
lives  there  alone  and  cooks  his  own  meals.  I've 
never  been  in  the  house,  but  folks  say  the  disorder 
is  something  awful." 

"  Yes,  I  shouldn't  think  Peter  was  cut  out  for 
a  tidy  housekeeper,"  said  Nancy  lightly,  drag- 
ging up  more  mint.  "  Just  think,  Louisa,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that  old  quarrel  I  might  be  Mrs. 
Peter  Wright  at  this  very  moment,  mother  to 
the  aforesaid  supposed  half  dozen,  and  vexing 
my  soul  over  Peter's  meals  and  socks  and  cows." 


294          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  I  guess  you  are  better  off  as  you  are,"  said 
Louisa. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  Nancy  looked  up  at  the 
white  house  on  the  hill  again.  "  I  have  an  awfully 
good  time  out  of  life,  but  it  doesn't  seem  to  sat- 
isfy, somehow.  To  be  candid  —  and  oh,  Louisa, 
candour  is  a  rare  thing  among  women  when  it 
comes  to  talking  of  the  men  —  I  believe  Td  rather 
be  cooking  Peter's  meals  and  dusting  his  house. 
I  wouldn't  mind  his  bad  grammar  now.  I've 
learned  one  or  two  valuable  little  things  out  yon- 
der, and  one  is  that  it  doesn't  matter  if  a  man's 
grammar  is  askew,  so  long  as  he  doesn't  swear  at 
you.  By  the  way,  is  Peter  as  ungrammatical  as 
ever?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  said  Louisa  helplessly. 
"  I  never  knew  he  was  ungrammatical." 

"Does  he  still  say,  'I  seen,'  and  'them 
things  '  ?  "  demanded  Nancy. 

"  I  never  noticed,"  confessed  Louisa. 

"  Enviable  Louisa!  Would  that  .1  had  been 
bom  with  that  blessed  faculty  of  never  noticing ! 
It  stands  a  woman  in  better  stead  than  beauty  or 
brains.  /  used  to  notice  Peter's  mistakes.  When 
he  said  '  I  seen  '  it  jarred  on  me  in  my  salad  days. 
I  tried,  oh,  so  tactfully,  to  reform  him  in  that 
respect.  Peter  didn't  like  being  reformed  —  the 
Wrights  always  had  a  fairly  good  opinion  of  them- 


THE    END    OF   A    QUARREL         295 

selves,  you  know.  It  was  really  over  a  question 
of  syntax  we  quarrelled.  Peter  told  me  I'd  have 
to  take  him  as  he  was,  grammar  and  all,  or  go  with- 
out him.  I  went  without  him  —  and  ever  since 
I've  been  wondering  if  I  were  really  sorry,  or  if  it 
were  merely  a  pleasantly  sentimental  regret  I 
was  hugging  to  my  heart.  I  daresay  it's  the  latter. 
Now,  Louisa,  I  see  the  beginning  of  the  plot  far 
down  in  those  placid  eyes  of  yours.  Strangle  it 
at  birth,  dear  Louisa.  There  is  no  use  in  your 
trying  to  make  up  a  match  between  Peter  and 
me  now  —  no,  nor  in  slyly  inviting  him  up  here 
to  tea  some  evening,  as  you  are  even  this  moment 
thinking  of  doing. 

"  Well,  I  must  go  and  milk  the  cows/'  gasped 
Louisa,  rather  glad  to  make  her  escape.  Nancy's 
power  of  thought-reading  struck  her  as  uncanny. 
She  felt  afraid  to  remain  with  her  cousin  any 
longer,  lest  Nancy  should  drag  to  light  all  the 
secrets  of  her  being. 

Nancy  sat  long  on  the  steps  after  Louisa  had 
gone  —  sat  until  the  night  came  down,  darkly 
and  sweetly,  over  the  garden,  and  the  stars 
twinkled  out  above  the  firs.  This  had  been  her 
home  in  girlhood.  Here  she  had  lived  and  kept 
house  for  her  father.  When  he  died,  Curtis  Shaw, 
newly  married  to  her  cousin  Louisa,  bought  the 
farm  from  her  and  moved  in.  Nancy  stayed  on 


296          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

with  them,  expecting  soon  to  go  to  a  home  of  her 
own.  She  and  Peter  Wright  were  engaged. 

Then  came  their  mysterious  quarrel,  concern- 
ing the  cause  of  which  kith  and  kin  on  both  sides 
were  left  in  annoying  ignorance.  Of  the  results 
they  were  not  ignorant.  Nancy  promptly  packed 
up  and  left  Avonlea  seven  hundred  miles  behind 
her.  She  went  to  a  hospital  in  Montreal  and  stud- 
ied nursing.  In  the  twenty  years  that  had  followed 
she  had  never  even  revisited  Avonlea.  Her  sud- 
den descent  on  it  this  summer  was  a  whim  born  of 
a  moment's  homesick  longing  for  this  same  old 
garden.  She  had  not  thought  about  Peter.  In 
very  truth,  she  had  thought  little  about  Peter 
for  the  last  fifteen  years.  She  supposed  that  she 
had  forgotten  him.  But  now,  sitting  on  the  old 
doorstep,  where  she  had  often  sat  in  her  courting 
days,  with  Peter  lounging  on  a  broad  stone  at 
her  feet,  something  tugged  at  her  heartstrings. 
She  looked  over  the  valley  to  the  light  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  Wright  farmhouse,  and  pictured 
Peter  sitting  there,  lonely  and  uncared  for,  with 
naught  but  the  cold  comfort  of  his  own  providing. 

"  Well,  he  should  have  got  married,"  she  said 
snappishly.  "  I  am  not  going  to  worry  because 
he  is  a  lonely  old  bachelor  when  all  these  years 
•  I  have  supposed  him  a  comfy  Benedict.  Why 
doesn't  he  hire  him  a  housekeeper,  at  least? 


THE    END    OF   A   QUARREL         297 

He  can  afford  it;  the  place  looks  prosperous. 
Ugh!  I've  a  fat  bank  account,  and  I've  seen  al- 
most everything  in  the  world  worth  seeing;  but 
I've  got  several  carefully  hidden  gray  hairs  and 
a  horrible  conviction  that  grammar  isn't  one  of 
the  essential  things  in  life  after  all.  Well,  I'm  not 
going  to  moon  out  here  in  the  dew  any  longer. 
I'm  going  in  to  read  the  smartest,  frilliest,  frothi- 
est society  novel  in  my  trunk." 

In  the  week  that  followed  Nancy  enjoyed  her- 
self after  her  own  fashion.  She  read  and  swung 
in  the  garden,  having  a  hammock  hung  under  the 
firs.  She  went  far  afield,  in  rambles  to  woods  and 
lonely  uplands. 

"  I  like  it  much  better  than  meeting  people," 
she  said,  when  Louisa  suggested  going  to  see  this 
one  and  that  one,  "  especially  the  Avonlea  people. 
All  my  old  chums  are  gone,  or  hopelessly  married 
and  changed,  and  the  young  set  who  have  come 
up  know  not  Joseph,  and  make  me  feel  uncomfort- 
ably middle-aged.  It's  far  worse  to  feel  middle- 
aged  than  old,  you  know.  Away  there  in  the 
woods  I  feel  as  eternally  young  as  Nature  herself. 
And  oh,  it's  so  nice  not  having  to  fuss  with  ther- 
mometers and  temperatures  and  other  people's 
whims.  Let  me  indulge  my  own  whims,  Louisa 
dear,  and  punish  me  with  a  cold  bite  when  I 
come  in  late  for  meals.  I'm  not  even  going  to 


298          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

church  again.  It  was  horrible  there  yesterday. 
The  church  is  so  offensively  spick-and-span  brand 
new  and  modern." 

"  It's  thought  to  be  the  prettiest  church  in 
these  parts,"  protested  Louisa,  a  little  sorely. 

"Churches  shouldn't  be  pretty  —  they  should 
at  least  be  fifty  years  old  and  mellowed  into 
beauty.  New  churches  are  an  abomination." 

"  Did  you  see  Peter  Wright  in  church? " 
asked  Louisa.  She  had  been  bursting  to  ask  it. 

Nancy  nodded. 

"  Verily,  yes.  He  sat  right  across  from  me  in 
the  corner  pew.  I  didn't  think  him  painfully 
changed.  Iron-gray  hair  becomes  him.  But  I 
was  horribly  disappointed  in  myself.  I  had  ex- 
pected to  feel  at  least  a  romantic  thrill,  but  all  I 
felt  was  a  comfortable  interest,  such  as  I  might 
have  taken  in  any  old  friend.  Do  my  utmost, 
Louisa,  I  couldn't  compass  a  thrill." 

"  Did  he  come  to  speak  to  you?  "  asked  Louisa, 
who  hadn't  any  idea  what  Nancy  meant  by  her 
thrills. 

"  Alas,  no.  It  wasn't  my  fault.  I  stood  at  the 
door  outside  with  the  most  amiable  expression 
I  could  assume,  but  Peter  merely  sauntered  away 
without  a  glance  in  my  direction.  It  would  be 
some  comfort  to  my  vanity  if  I  could  believe  it 
was  on  account  of  rankling  spite  or  pride.  But 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          299 

the  honest  truth,  dear  Weezy,  is  that  it  looked 
to  me  exactly  as  if  he  never  thought  of  it.  He  was 
more  interested  in  talking  about  the  hay  crop 
with  Oliver  Sloane  —  who,  by  the  way,  is  more 
Oliver  Sloaneish  than  ever." 

"  If  you  feel  as  you  said  you  did  the  other  night, 
why  didn't  you  go  and  speak  to  him?  "  Louisa 
wanted  to  know. 

"  But  I  don't  feel  that  way  now.  That  was  just 
a  mood.  You  don't  know  anything  about  moods, 
dearie.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  yearn 
desperately  one  hour  for  something  you  wouldn't 
take  if  it  were  offered  you  the  next." 

"  But  that  is  foolishness,"  protested  Louisa. 

"To  be  sure  it  is  —  rank  foolishness.  But  oh, 
it  is  so  delightful  to  be  foolish  after  being  com- 
pelled to  be  unbrokenly  sensible  for  twenty  years. 
Well,  I'm  going  picking  strawberries  this  after- 
noon, Lou.  Don't  wait  tea  for  me.  I  probably 
won't  be  back  till  dark.  I've  only  four  more 
days  to  stay  and  I  want  to  make  the  most  of 
them."- 

Nancy  wandered  far  and  wide  in  her  rambles 
that  afternoon.  When  she  had  filled  her  jug  she 
still  roamed  about  with  delicious  aimlessness. 
Once  she  found  herself  in  a  wood  lane  skirting 
a  field  wherein  a  man  was  mowing  hay.  The  man 
was  Peter  Wright.  Nancy  walked  faster  when 


300          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

she  discovered  this,  with  never  a  roving  glance, 
and  presently  the  green,  ferny  depths  of  the  maple 
woods  swallowed  her  up. 

From  old  recollections  she  knew  that  she  was 
on  Peter  Morrison's  land,  and  calculated  that  if 
she  kept  straight  on  she  would  come  out  where 
the  old  Morrison  house  used  to  be.  Her  calcu- 
lations proved  correct,  with  a  trifling  variation. 
She  came  out  fifty  yards  south  of  the  old  deserted 
Morrison  house,  and  found  herself  in  the  yard  of 
the  Wright  farm! 

Passing  the  house  —  the  house  where  she  had 
once  dreamed  of  reigning  as  mistress  —  Nancy's 
curiosity  overcame  her.  The  place  was  not  in 
view  of  any  other  near  house.  She  deliberately 
went  up  to  it  intending  —  low  be  it  spoken  —  to 
peep  in  at  the  kitchen  window.  But,  seeing  the 
door  wide  open,  she  went  to  it  instead  and  halted 
on  the  step,  looking  about  her  keenly. 

The  kitchen  was  certainly  pitiful  in  its  disorder. 
The  floor  had  apparently  not  been  swept  for  a 
fortnight.  On  the  bare  deal  table  were  the  rem- 
nants of  Peter's  dinner,  a  meal  that  could  not 
have  been  very  tempting  at  its  best. 

"  What  a  miserable  place  for  a  human  being 
to  live  in!  "  groaned  Nancy.  "  Look  at  the  ashes 
on  that  stove!  And  that  table!  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  Peter  has  got  gray?  He'll  work  hard  hay- 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          301 

making  all  the  afternoon  —  and  then  come  home 
to  this! " 

An  idea  suddenly  darted  into  Nancy's  brain. 
At  first  she  looked  aghast.  Then  she  laughed  and 
glanced  at  her  watch. 

"I'll  do  it  —  just  for  fun  and  a  little  pity. 
It's  half-past  two  and  Peter  won't  be  home  till 
four  at  the  earliest.  I'll  have  a  good  hour  to  do 
it  in,  and  still  make  my  escape  in  good  time.  No- 
body will  ever  know;  nobody  can  see  me  here." 

Nancy  went  in,  threw  off  her  hat  and  seized 
a  broom.  The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  give  the 
kitchen  a  thorough  sweeping.  Then  she  kindled 
a  fire,  put  a  kettle  full  of  water  on  to  heat,  and 
attacked  the  dishes.  From  the  number  of  them 
she  rightly  concluded  that  Peter  hadn't  washed 
any  for  at  least  a  week. 

"  I  suppose  he  just  uses  the  clean  ones  as  long 
as  they  hold  out,  and  then  has  a  grand  wash-up," 
she  laughed.  "  I  wonder  where  he  keeps  his  dish- 
towels,  if  he  has  any." 

Evidently  Peter  hadn't  any.  At  least,  Nancy 
couldn't  find  any.  She  marched  boldly  into  the 
dusty  sitting-room  and  explored  the  drawers  of 
an  old-fashioned  sideboard,  confiscating  a  towel 
she  found  there.  As  she  worked  she  hummed  a 
song;  her  steps  were  light  and  her  eyes  bright 
with  excitement.  Nancy  was  enjoying  herself 


302          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

thoroughly,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that.  The 
spice  of  mischief  in  the  adventure  pleased  her 
mightily. 

The  dishes  washed,  she  hunted  up  a  clean, 
but  yellow  and  evidently  long  unused  tablecloth 
out  of  the  sideboard,  and  proceeded  to  set  the 
table  and  get  Peter's  tea.  She  found  bread  and 
butter  in  the  pantry,  a  trip  to  the  cellar  furnished 
a  pitcher  of  cream,  and  Nancy  recklessly  heaped 
the  contents  of  her  strawberry  jug  on  Peter's 
plate.  The  tea  was  made  and  set  back  to  keep 
warm.  And,  as  a  finishing  touch,  Nancy  ravaged 
the  old  neglected  garden  and  set  a  huge  bowl  of 
crimson  roses  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 

"  Now  I  must  go,"  she  said  aloud.  "  Wouldn't 
it  be  fun  to  see  Peter's  face  when  he  comes  in 
though?  Ha-hum!  I've  enjoyed  doing  this  — 
but  why?  Nancy  Rogerson,  don't  be  asking 
yourself  conundrums.  Put  on  your  hat  and 
proceed  homeward,  constructing  on  your  way 
some  reliable  fib  to  account  to  Louisa  for  the  ab- 
sence of  your  strawberries." 

Nancy  paused  a  moment  and  looked  around 
wistfully.  She  had  made  the  place  look  cheery  and 
neat  and  homelike.  She  felt  that  queer  tugging 
at  her  heartstrings  again.  Suppose  she  belonged 
here  and  was  waiting  for  Peter  to  come  home  to 
tea.  Suppose  —  Nancy  whirled  around  with 


THE    END    OF   A    QUARREL          303 

a  sudden  horrible  prescience  of  what  she  was 
going  to  see!  Peter  Wright  was  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

Nancy's  face  went  crimson.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  herself. 
Peter  looked  at  her  and  then  at  the  table,  with 
its  fruit  and  flowers. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  politely. 

Nancy  recovered  herself.  With  a  shame- 
faced laugh  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Don't  have  me  arrested  for  trespass,  Peter. 
I  came  and  looked  in  at  your  kitchen  out  of  im- 
pertinent curiosity,  and  just  for  fun  I  thought  I'd 
come  in  and  get  your  tea.  I  thought  you'd  be 
so  surprised  —  and  I  meant  to  go  before  you 
came  home,  of  course." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  been  surprised,"  said  Peter, 
shaking  hands.  "  I  saw  you  go  past  the  field  and 
I  tied  the  horses  and  followed  you  down  through 
the  woods.  I've  been  sitting  on  the  fence  back 
yonder,  watching  your  comings  and  goings." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  and  speak  to  me  at 
church  yesterday,  Peter? "  demanded  Nancy, 
boldly. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  would  say  something  ungram- 
matical,"  answered  Peter  drily. 

The  crimson  flamed  over  Nancy's  face  again. 
She  pulled  her  hand  away. 


304          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

"  That's  cruel  of  you,  Peter." 

Peter  suddenly  laughed.  There  was  a  note 
of  boyishness  in  the  laughter. 

"So  it  is,"  he  said,  "  but  I  had  to  get  rid  of 
the  accumulated  malice  and  spite  of  twenty  years 
somehow.  It's  all  gone  now,  and  I'll  be  as  amiable 
as  I  know  how.  But  since  you  have  gone  to  the 
trouble  of  getting  my  supper  for  me,  Nancy, 
you  must  stay  and  help  me  eat  it.  Them  straw- 
berries look  good.  I  haven't  had  any  this  summer 
—  been  too  busy  to  pick  them." 

Nancy  stayed.  She  sat  at  the  head  of  Peter's 
table  and  poured  his  tea  for  him.  She  talked 
to  him  wittily  of  the  Avonlea  people  and  the 
changes  in  their  old  set.  Peter  followed  her  lead 
with  an  apparent  absence  of  self-consciousness, 
eating  his  supper  like  a  man  whose  heart  and  mind 
were  alike  on  good  terms  with  him.  Nancy  felt 
wretched  —  and,  at  the  same  time,  ridiculously 
happy.  It  seemed  the  most  grotesque  thing  in 
the  world  that  she  should  be  presiding  there  at 
Peter's  table,  and  yet  the  most  natural.  There 
were  moments  when  she  felt  like  crying  —  other 
moments  when  her  laughter  was  as  ready  and 
spontaneous  as  a  girl's.  Sentiment  and  humour 
had  always  waged  an  equal  contest  in  Nancy's 
nature. 

When  Peter  had  finished  his  strawberries  he 


THE    END    OF    A    QUARREL          305 

folded  his  arms  on  the  table  and  looked  admir- 
ingly at  Nancy. 

"  You  look  well  at  the  head  of  a  table,  Nancy," 
he  said  critically.  "  How  is  it  that  you  haven't 
been  presiding  at  one  of  your  own  long  before  this? 
I  thought  you'd  meet  with  lots  of  men  out  in  the 
world  that  you'd  like  —  men  who  talked  good 
grammar." 

"  Peter,  don't!"  said  Nancy,  wincing.  "I 
was  a  goose." 

"  No,  you  were  quite  right.  I  was  a  tetchy 
fool.  If  I'd  had  any  sense  I'd  have  felt  thankful 
you  thought  enough  of  me  to  want  to  improve 
me,  and  I'd  have  tried  to  kerrect  my  mistakes 
instead  of  getting  mad.  It's  too  late  now,  I 
suppose." 

"  Too  late  for  what?  "  said  Nancy,  plucking 
up  heart  of  grace  at  something  in  Peter's  tone  and 
look. 

"  For  —  kerrecting  mistakes." 

"  Grammatical   ones?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  I  guess  them  mistakes  are  past 
kerrecting  in  an  old  fellow  like  me.  Worse  mis- 
takes, Nancy.  I  wonder  what  you  would  say 
if  I  asked  you  to  forgive  me,  and  have  me  after 
all." 

"I'd  snap  you  up  before  you'd  have  time  to 
change  your  mind,"  said  Nancy  brazenly.  She 


306          CHRONICLES    OF    AVONLEA 

tried  to  look  Peter  in  the  face,  but  her  blue  eyes, 
where  tears  and  mirth  were  blending,  faltered 
down  before  his  gray  ones. 

Peter  stood  up,  knocking  over  his  chair,  and 
strode  around  the  table  to  her. 

"  Nancy,  my  girl!  "  he  said. 


THE   END. 


CHRONICLES  OF  AVONLEA 

In  "which  Anne  Shirley  of  Green  Gables  and 
Avonlea  plays  some  part,  and  which  have  to  do  with 
other  personalities  and  events,  including  The  Pur- 
chase ofSloane,  The  Baby  Which  Came  to  Jane,  The 
Mystery  of  Her  Father's  Daughter  and  of  Tannis  of 
the  Flats,  The  Promise  of  Lucy  Ellen,  The  Beau  and 
Aunt  Olivia,  The  Deferment  of  Hester,  and  finally 
of  The  Hurrying  of  Ludovic,  All  related  by 

<Z%Contgomery 

Author  of 

"Anne  of  Green  Gables"  (32nd  printing),  "Anne  of  Avonlea"  (16th 

printing),  "Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard"  (8th  printing).    "The  Story 

Girl "  (6th  printing). 

* 

I2mo,  cloth,  with  a  new  portrait  in  full  color  of  Anne, 
by  George  Qibbs,  net  $1 .25;  postpaid  $1 .40 

Anne  Shirley  is  the  very  Anne  of  whom  Mark  Twain  wrote 
in  a  letter  to  Francis  Wilson  :  "In  Anne  Shirley,  you  will  find 
the  dearest  and  most  moving  and  delightful  child  of  fiction 
since  the  immortal  Alice."  Of  Miss  Montgomery's  previous 
books,  the  reviewers  have  written  as  follows : 

"  I  can  hardly  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed  the  book,  and  I  can  heartily 
recommend  it  to  my  friends  who  are  not  ashamed  when  from  time  to  time 
they  find  the  eyes  suffuse  and  the  page  grow  blurred  at  the  pathos  of  the 
story."  —  Sir  Louis  H.  Davies  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Canada. 

"  I  take  it  as  a  great  test  of  the  worth  of  the  book  that  while  the  young 
people  are  rummaging  all  over  the  house  looking  for  Anne,  the  head  of  the 
family  has  carried  her  off  to  read  on  his  way  to  town." —  Bliss  Carman. 

"  Here  we  have  a  book  as  human  as  'David  Harum,'  a  heroine  who  out- 
charms  a  dozen  princesses  of  fiction,  and  reminds  you  of  some  sweet  girl  you 
know,  or  knew  back  in  the  days  when  the  world  was  young  and  you  threw 
away  your  sponge  that  you  might  have  to  borrow  hers  to  clean  your  slate." 
-San  Francisco  Bulletin. 

"A  book  to  lift  the  spirit  and  send  the  pessimist  into  bankruptcy!"  — 
Meredith  Nicholson. 

"  Miss  Montgomery  deserves  more  than  ordinary  praise  for  her  clean 
simple  style,  and  her  power  to  convey  the  sweetness  and  charm  of  such  a 
country  aud  such  a  heroine." —  Toronto  News. 

"  The  writer's  style  is  careful  and  refined."  —  Si.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 

"  The  art  which  pervades  every  page  is  so  refined  that  the  cultivated  imagi- 
nation will  return  to  the  story  again  and  again  in  memory  to  find  always 
something  fresh  to  enjoy." —  Toronto  World. 


NAOMI   OF   THE   ISLAND 


Lucy  ^hurston  Abbott 


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A  FIRST  story  by  a  writer  of  ability  who  bids  fair  to  be 
heard  from  as  a  novelist  of  importance.  The  potent  pos- 
sibilities of  richness  of  character  and  the  general  denial  of 
self  are  very  sympathetically  described  in  the  development 
of  the  life  of  the  girl  heroine,  Naomi,  who,  though  from 
the  time  of  her  childhood  handicapped  by  environment 
and  seemingly  overwhelmed  by  circumstances,  determines 
to  be  "somebody." 

The  scene  begins  on  a  rough  island  off  the  New  England 
coast  and  the  story  has  to  do  for  the  most  part  with  "  down 
Maine  folk."  But  it  is  the  whimsical,  dainty  and  lovable 
"  Naomi  of  the  Island  "  who  wins  our  keenest  sympathy  and 
affection  from  the  first,  and  whose  independence  and  charm 
make  us  sorrow  and  rejoice  with  her. 

The  editor  who  finally  passed  on  Mrs.  Abbott's  story 
summed  up  the  situation,  when  he  wrote:  "This  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  love  stories  I  have  ever  read  and  I  heartily 
recommend  its  publication." 


"The  beauty  of  the  story  lies  in  its  simplicity  and  pathos  mingled 
with  the  lighter  vein  of  humor."  —  Baltimore  Herald. 

"One  merit  of  the  book  is  its  reproduction  of  the  genuine  New 
England  atmosphere.  The  humor  is  pervasive  and  delicate,  the  pathetic 
touches  equally  effective."  —  Boston  Herald. 


THE   DOMINANT    CHORD 


!By  fdward  Kimball 

With  a  frontispiece,  in  full  color,  from  a  painting 
by  William  Bunting 

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In  this  battle  of  wits  and  wealth,  of  love  and  pride,  we  have 
a  new  and  novel  interpretation  of  Wordsworth's  "simple plan, 
that  they  should  take  who  have  the  power,  and  they  should 
keep  who  can." 

"  The  Dominant  Chord"  is  a  story  in  which  the  characters 
that  count  are  few  —  just  a  man  and  a  maid.  But  the  man 
is  one  accustomed  to  make  his  own  way  and  gain  his  end,  and 
when  convention  proves  a  barrier  in  his  path,  Gordon  Craig 
defiantly  sweeps  it  aside  and  takes  decisive  measures  to  win 
the  heart  of  Alice  Huntington.  The  unusual  methods  em- 
ployed by  the  man  only  serve  to  arouse  the  natural  fighting 
instincts  of  the  girl;  a  girl  whom  we  admire  for  her  womanli- 
ness, and  who  is  a  thoroughbred  in  every  act. 

There  is  a  thread  of  scientific  prophecy  running  through 
the  book  which,  while  it  does  not  distract  attention  from  the 
clash  of  two  strong,  primitive,  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  antag- 
onistic natures,  will  not  be  found  to  lessen  the  interest  in  the 
story  for  those  inclined  to  speculate  on  future  developments 
in  the  field  of  applied  science. 

But  it  is  the  story  that  counts,  and  this  conflict  of  wills,  un- 
der unusual  circumstances,  between  a  girl  of  wealth  and  posi- 
tion and  a  man  of  genius,  an  engineer,  who  does  things,  gives 
a  plot  that  is  strong,  compelling,  and  fascinating,  and  the  un- 
looked  for  denouement  serves  to  emphasize  the  author's  as- 
sertion that  "  in  all  rich  lives,  lives  that  are  worth  the  living, 
the  dominant  chord  is  love,  and  always,  always  and  inevitably 
the  strongest  thing  will  win." 


Author  of 
A  Captain  of  Raleigh'*."  "Comradei  of  the  Traib,"  etc. 

Illustrated  by  John  Qoss. 

9 
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Adventure,  the  exhilaration  of  outdoor  life  in  settlement 
and  wilderness,  mystery,  and  clear-cut,  appealing  character- 
ization are  combined  in  this  story  in  so  engrossing  and 
unusual  a  manner  that  we  feel  justified  in  recommending  it. 

The  scene  is  the  quiet  little  village  of  Samson's  Mill 
Settlement,  in  the  backwoods  of  New  Brunswick,  and  it  is 
around  the  Harleys,  the  most  important  family  in  the  vil- 
lage, that  the  story  centres.  The  Harleys  boast  of  a  family 
tradition.  Upon  three  instances  of  courtship  in  previous 
generations  the  receipt  of  a  playing  card  marked  with  three 
red  crosses  has  forerun  disaster. 

The  family  tradition  is  vividly  recalled  by  James  Harley 
when  David  Marsh,  a  prosperous  young  guide,  in  love'  with 
Nell  Harley,  receives  a  card  marked  with  the  fatal  red  crosses 
during  a  game  of  poker  in  the  home  of  Rayton,  a  young 
Englishman  who  is  a  newcomer  in  the  settlement. 

True  to  the  old  tradition,  accidents,  misfortune  and  misun- 
derstandings follow  in  the  wake  of  the  fatal  card  until  the  en- 
tire village  is  puzzled  and  apprehensive.  Rayton  settles  down 
to  solve  the  mystery  and  at  last  finds  the  true  solution. 


"  As  a  clever  spinning  of  incident  out  of  homespun  materials,  it  must  win 
our  sincere  admiration;  as  a  novelty  in  tales  of  mystery  it  comes  with  a  pleas- 
ing sense  of  surprise  and  suggests  a  new  kind  of  possibility  in  this  kind  of 
fiction.  It  is  sincerely  and  ably  written,  and  sustains  a  high  level  from  the 
first  page  to  the  last."  —  The  Boston  Herald. 

CSCSXXyOSOSOSCKK8XCS08XKKK8^ 


From 

L.  C.  Page  &  Company's 

Announcement  List 

of  New  Fiction 


THE  STORY  GIRL 

By  L.  M.  MONTGOMERY. 

Cloth,  12mo,  illustrated,  decorative  jacket  .        .        .       $1.50 

To  quote  from  one  of  our  editor's  reports  on  the  new  Mont- 
gomery book  —  "  Miss  Montgomery  has  decidedly  arrived  in  this 
story!  "  The  remarkable  success  of  her  delightful  ANNE  books 
and  "of  the  charming  "  Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard  "  has  established 
her  as  one  of  America's  leading  authors  —  a  writer  of  books 
which  touch  the  heart,  uplift  the  spirit,  and  leave  an  imprint  of 
lasting  sweetness  on  the  memory.  But  in  "  The  Story  Girl," 
everywhere  the  touch  of  the  finished  artist  is  evident  —  a  smooth- 
ness and  polish  which  heightens  the  unusual  style  of  a  gifted 
author. 

The  environment  is  again  the  author's  beloved  Prince  Edward 
Island  and  the  story  and  incidents  possess  the  same  simplicity 
and  charm  which  characterize  Miss  Montgomery's  earlier  books. 
The  Story  Girl,  herself  —  Sara  Stanley  — is  a  fascinating 
creature,  and  will  delight  and  thrill  her  readers  with  her  weird 
tales  of  ghosts  "  and  things."  She  tells  in  wondrous  voice  of 
"  The  Mystery  of  the  Golden  Milestone,"  "  How  Kissing  Was 
Discovered,"  and  of  just  how  the  Milky  Way  happened  into  the 
heavens.  She  will  make  you  feel  the  spell  of  the  old  orchard 
where  she  and  her  playmates  spend  such  happy  days,  and  with 
Felix,  Dan  and  Beverly  you  will  live  again  with  her  the  "  trage- 
dies of  childhood." 

Of  Miss  Montgomery's  previous  books,  the  reviewers  have 
written  as  follows: 

"  The  art  which  pervades  every  page  is  so  refined  that  the  cul- 
tivated imagination  will  return  to  the  story  again  and  again  in 
memory  to  find  always  something  fresh  to  enjoy."  —  Toronto 
World. 

"  Miss  Montgomery  has  attained  an  honored  place  among  the 
worth-while  writers  or  fiction."  —  Beacon  and  Budget. 

"  Miss  Montgomery  has  a  sympathetic  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  joined  to  high  ideals,  a  reasonably  romantic  vievr  point 
and  a  distinct  gift  of  description."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 


Z.    C.  PAGE   <5r«   COMPANY'S 


A  CAPTAIN  OF  RALEIGH'S 

By  G.  E.  THEODORE  ROBERTS,  author  of  "  A  Cavalier  of  Vir- 
ginia," "  Comrades  of  the  Trails,"  "  Red  Feathers,"  etc. 
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A  typical  Roberts  romance  —  dashing  and  brisk  with  the 
scenes  for  the  most  part  laid  in  the  infant  colony  of  Newfound- 
land, at  the  time  when  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  and  other  famous 
captains  swept  the  seas  for  England.  Sir  Walter  is  one  of  the 
characters  in  the  romance  but  the  chief  interest  centres  about  one 
of  his  officers,  Captain  John  Percy. 

Elizabeth  Duwaney,  the  heroine,  is  beautiful  and  vivacious 
enough  to  quite  turn  the  heads  of  the  several  gallant  gentlemen 
who  struggle  for  her  hand,  and  to  keep  the  reader  guessing  until 
the  very  last  page  as  to  which  suitor  will  find  favor  in  her  eyes. 
Unusual  and  unexpected  situations  in  the  plot  are  handled  skil- 
fully and  you  close  the  book  agreeing  with  our  editor  that  "  Mr. 
Roberts  has  given  us  another  capital  yarn!  " 

"Mr.  Roberts  has  undoubted  skill  in  portraying  character 
and  carrying  events  along  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion."  — 
The  Smart  Set. 

"  One  can  always  predict  of  a  book  by  Mr.  Roberts  that  it 
will  be  interesting.  One  can  go  further  and  predict  that  the  book 
will  be  fascinating,  exciting  and  thrilling."  —  Boston^Globe. 

A  SOLDIER  OF  VALLEY  FORGE 

By  ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS,  author  of  "  An  Enemy  to  the 
King,"  "Philip  Winwood,"  etc.,  and  G.  E.  THEODORE 
ROBERTS,  author  of  "  Hemming,  the  Adventurer,"  "  Red 
Feathers,"  etc. 

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The  many  admirers  of  the  brilliant  historical  romances  of  the 
late  Robert  Neilson  Stephens  will  be  gratified  at  the  announce- 
ment of  a  posthumous  work  by  that  gifted  writer.  The  rough 
draft  of  the  story  was  laid  aside  for  other  work,  and  later,  with- 
out completing  the  novel,  the  plot  was  utilized  for  a  play.  With 
the  play  completed  Mr.  Stephens  again  turned  his  attention  to 
the  novel,  but  death  prevented  its  completion.  Mr.  Roberts  has 
handled  his  difficult  task  of  completing  the  work  with  care  and 
skill. 

The  story,  like  that  of  "  The  Continental  Dragoon,"  takes  as 
its  theme  an  incident  in  the  Revolution,  and,  as  in  the  earlier 
novel,  the  scene  is  the  "  debatable  ground  "  north  of  New  York. 
In  interest  of  plot  and  originality  of  development  it  is  as  re- 
markable as  the  earlier  work,  but  it  is  more  mature,  more  force- 
ful, more  real. 


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LIBRARY 
™  22  1994 


NOV  0 


A    000029758    0 


